


Weirdos' Voices

by awesomissima, parttimehuman



Category: Dreamer Trilogy - Maggie Stiefvater, Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Domestic Bliss, First Dates, First Kiss, Fluff and Smut, Getting Together, Happy Ending, I'd say meet cute but it's more like meet weird, M/M, Masturbation, Sharing Clothes, Sharing a Bed, and they were ROOMMATES, but with respect for Ronan's canonical hand kink, farm animals for Ronan, some very minor angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:01:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25012819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awesomissima/pseuds/awesomissima, https://archiveofourown.org/users/parttimehuman/pseuds/parttimehuman
Summary: Without ever having seen the guy, Ronan is crushing hard on one of the construction workers renovating his building. Sitting against the door to his apartment, listening to the beautiful voice and oddly entertaining ramblings of a certain Ganseyboy, Ronan wonders what it would be like if they ever met. It happens when he least expects it...
Relationships: Declan Lynch & Ronan Lynch, Noah Czerny & Ronan Lynch & Blue Sargent, Richard Gansey III/Ronan Lynch
Comments: 14
Kudos: 36
Collections: TRC Big Bang 2020





	Weirdos' Voices

**Author's Note:**

> This work was created for the TRC/CDTH Big Bang 2020 and therefore consists of a fic and some beautiful art pieces. The words are by me, parttimehuman, and the art by the wonderful and talented [shamanda-lie.](https://shamanda-lie.tumblr.com/) Be on the look-out for more art from her over the next couple of days, and please consider supporting her with reblogs and compliment-showers.

“One last chance, Mr Lynch.” 

It’s Declan Lynch who releases his breath in obvious relief at those words, but it’s Ronan Lynch who they were meant for. 

“There’s one exam left at the end of this week. You show up, you take the exam, you pass. Prove to me that you’ve got some appreciation for the education this college is trying to provide you with and I’ll let you stay for the time being. But you better not test my patience any further. Are we understood?” 

“Understood, Sir,” comes the instant reply from Declan’s mouth. He’s nodding eagerly, his eyes wide open, back so straight that it hurts Ronan to watch him sitting there on the edge of his seat across from some thousand-year-old asshole who thinks Ronan owes him gratitude for his attempts of boring him to death. 

Ronan rolls his eyes and gets up. “We done here?” He honestly doesn’t think he can stand having to witness his older brother with his tongue up the ass of Ronan’s college advisor. 

“I think you’re underestimating the gravity of this situation, Mr Lynch,” the old asshole starts again. “You’ve had your second chance. And your third one. And a lot more considering that this is only your first semester. Don’t think I’ll feel bad for ending your college career at the end of this week.”

“That won’t be necessary, Sir,” Declan says with fake calmness that absolutely everybody can see through from a ten-mile distance. Ronan is already out the door as his brother promises all the things he’ll do to earn his chance to stay in college. Lies that were never going to be believed, not by anyone at Ronan’s college, and not by Declan himself. 

“You know, sometimes I wonder why I’m even still trying with you,” Declan whisper-shouts at Ronan as soon as they’re outside. He does that a lot, whisper-shouting. As if it sounds any less aggressive if he just turns down the volume. Fucking ridiculous. 

“I wonder the same thing,” Ronan tells him, shrugging his shoulders. 

The truth is that neither of them have to wonder. They both know the truth, and the truth his called Matthew Lynch. Matthew is Ronan’s and Declan’s little brother and the only reason why the day they became orphans wasn’t as well the day they parted ways forever. 

“I swear it, Ronan, if you fuck up this last chance,” Declan growls. Sometimes Ronan wishes he’d just shout his words out loud, just once, just to see if they’d still make him as angry then. 

Ronan doesn’t reply, he just cocks his eyebrows. He’s tall enough to spit on the heads of most people he comes across, nineteen years old and with nothing to lose. His nose has been broken enough times to never be completely straight again, his back, neck and shoulders are covered in ink that came with the purpose of pissing off his older brother. Declan can talk shit about Ronan being an ambition-less, discipline-lacking loser all day long if it gets him off, but there’s nothing he can actually do to make Ronan a respectable member of the kind of society Declan believes in. Declan’s threats have been empty for years. 

Declan sighs. “What exam is it at the end of this week? Do I need to bribe one of your classmates into sharing their notes with you? Who do you think has the best ones? Any names?” 

Ronan just grins. Fuck if he knows what exam is the last one he hasn’t missed yet. Fuck if he knows the names of any of the people taking that class. Declan should really know better than to assume he went there even once. 

As victorious as Ronan feels while standing in the parking lot with an intentionally ugly and cruel grin on his face while his brother is spouting profanities in his direction, the result is the same as always, the suffering continues. Of course, Declan finds out what it is that Ronan needs to prepare for in only three days. Of course, he sends an e-mail containing all relevant material plus mock exam questions.

It’s like he’s a masochist. Like four years of high-school weren’t enough torture. Ronan still doesn’t know how exactly it’s possible that he graduated at all. Much less get into college. He certainly didn’t want to, and quite frankly, he wasn’t very concerned about it even being manageable. But while Ronan enjoyed his summer of freedom, Declan pulled an almost impressive number of strings behind his back. Faster than he could say “fuck you”, Ronan was signed up for courses in Latin and Romance linguistics. 

“I don’t get it,” Ronan remembers Declan saying, “you love Latin. You’re basically fluent. You know that’s not a thing, right? Nobody actually _speaks_ Latin.”

Declan didn’t get it. And he still doesn’t. Never has. Never will. 

Ronan doesn’t love Latin. He hated school and he hated being one of a couple of hundred kids wearing the same uniform and he hated teachers telling him what he needed to learn for life. So he chose the one thing nobody else was good at and mastered it, and then he made it his mission to humiliate Latin teachers as often as he could. Another kid showed up in junior year, clearly knowing his stuff but Ronan didn’t have to put in as much effort as this other boy and he knew he was hated for it. They pushed each other higher until neither of them had anything left to learn from high school Latin teachers. Ronan is pretty sure that other kid got into Harvard. 

Ronan doesn’t care about the things school and college want to teach him. Where’s the point in dragging yourself out of bed every morning just to sit through lectures that make your butt sore and your eyes dry? You study and then you prove how well you can repeat things you’ve been told during exams. The same thing, over and over again, a never-ending cycle. Thousands, ten thousands of dollars thrown out of the window to buy a slowly developing death-wish. 

He could be anywhere right now. Traveling the world or living as a farmer on a lonely island in the middle of nowhere. He could have an actual life instead of pretending that a crisp, white collar and a house loan at twenty-five are legitimate life goals. He could be free enough to stand on top of a mountain and scream into the void, could be real enough to open up his life for some of the creatures from his dreams. 

Instead, Ronan is sitting at his desk and staring at the screen of his laptop, at a folder containing multiple subfolders containing countless documents and presentation slides and links. Something inside him goes numb, ready to die if he doesn’t need it. If he won’t ever make use of it. 

It’s painful. Ronan isn’t even studying. There’s no pen to be found anywhere near him and he has no intention of absorbing the information he’s looking at. All he’s doing is clicking his way through the mess to get an idea of how insane exactly Declan must be to think he’s going to learn any of it by the end of the week.

The worst thing about it is, there are full texts in Latin, but Ronan doesn’t even care enough to read through them anymore. It seems to be one of Declan’s specialties, taking the few things Ronan didn’t have a natural aversion against already and twisting the circumstances until he wants to scream. Like making Ronan wear a suit and tie for church on Sundays or bringing college into the whole Latin thing. 

When Ronan’s phone buzzes with a message from Declan asking how the studying is going, he grabs it and chucks it out of the open window to prevent himself from committing murder. For a few seconds, he genuinely considers throwing the laptop out as well, but luckily, before Ronan can do anything, his favorite distraction as of late returns, immediately snatching his attention. Exam? Ronan doesn’t know anything about an exam. 

It’s kind of a funny story. The hallways and staircases in the building where Ronan occupies a shitty little apartment are being renovated. It was more than annoying at first, for different reasons, such as the noise that wakes him every morning roughly an hour after he’s managed to put his insomniac self to sleep. Footsteps, machine saws, shouted orders, drilling machines, a radio playing terrible pop music at top volume. Had Ronan had a sleep pattern to begin with, the begin of the renovation works would have ended it. 

There’s the dirt too, tiny little stones and dust covering the hallways and no way to enter his apartment without bringing the mess inside. It’s not that Ronan minds a bit of dirt clinging to his combat boots, but now he’s got to suffer from the uncomfortable feeling of stepping into that shit while barefoot in his own home or actually go out and buy a vacuum. For a solid week, Ronan went with his usual strategy for the minor inconveniences of life: constant complaining, no real action. 

The game has kind of been changed. 

Ronan shuts his laptop and leans back in his chair, turning it halfway around and looking at his door with a smile. He doesn’t actually see anyone, but now he’s listening to the voices that are barely subdued by the wall and door. 

“Christ, little one, what are you doing there?” One of the voices wants to know. 

Ronan has to grin, but it’s not that voice that he wants to hear. It’s the “little one”, as his colleagues call him sometimes, that Ronan has been straining his ears for during the past couple of days. 

“Am I doing this wrong?” Little One asks in reply. “I keep telling you, you need to give me clearer instructions. A clap on the back isn’t really helping me much when I don’t know how to do things.” 

Ronan can hear a deep sigh followed by, “Well, technically you’re just doing it complicated. You weren’t kidding when you said you had no work experience, huh?” 

“Why would I say that if not because it’s true?” 

“Just… give me that… yeah, see? More like this? There you go.” 

Like a damn idiot, Ronan is sitting there smiling at nothing because of the exchange he’s just witnessed. He grabs a beer from the fridge and flops down on the bed that occupies most of the room, getting comfortable against his pillows, because this is becoming Ronan’s new favorite hobby, and here’s the chance to continue his secret list of things he knows about the voice from the other side of the door. So far, the information consists of puzzle pieces, enough of them to make the guy Ronan hasn’t actually seen yet interesting, but not enough to make sense. 

Ronan goes through everything he’s gathered so far in his head. 

1\. The voice is a very nice one to listen to. It’s low and soft and calm, its owner knows how to use it to express himself well. He sounds like he’s younger than the other men he’s working with and inexperienced, but he’s smart and has better manners than Ronan. His vocabulary consists of words Ronan bets none of the construction guys have ever heard before, which seems odd, but more in an amusing way than a bad one. 

2\. The dude has a million names, and Ronan isn’t sure he’s heard the real one yet. ‘Ganseyboy’ or ‘Little One’ are the most frequently used ones, but the guys have referred to him as ‘Dick’, ‘Richie Rich’, ‘Number Three’ or ‘All American’. Personally, Ronan finds this ridiculous. In middle school, a kid tried to shorten Ronan to ‘Ro’, which caused Ronan to punch them in the throat. Ironically, this earned him the unofficial nickname ‘sucker punch’, but at least it was badass and nobody dared using it to his face, so he was okay with it. 

3\. Ganseyboy likes to talk. A lot. Whenever one of his colleagues is in his vicinity he’s socializing, except it’s not really smalltalk he does. He tells whole ass stories about a grandmother and her cat, shares anecdotes and childhood memories, asks people what they know about this or that topic, never runs out of things he wants to discuss. Personally, Ronan doesn’t really get what’s wrong with silence, even in someone else’s company, but he has to admit that this guy and his endless chattering are highly entertaining.

4\. Everybody loves Ganseyboy. A couple of dozen times a day, the guy is told that he’s doing something wrong or could do it better. That he has so many things to learn, so many skills yet to master. But nobody ever says it in a mean or condescending way. Not at all like the voices telling Ronan how terribly he’s doing at college. And this? This must be a superpower. Ganseyboy is forgiven for every imperfection, every flaw in his work. 

5\. Ronan has been trying to figure out Ganseyboy’s accent, but he’s generally rather clueless as to where this guy might be from. There’s nothing in his voice that says Henrietta, Virginia, not even the slightest southern drawl. Then again, Ronan can’t place him anywhere else either. Single words of his have just the faintest hint of an accent sometimes, but never the same one. One time Ronan thought he might hear a little something British, but then the whole rest of the sentence came out perfectly American, and it kind of bothers Ronan a little bit. 

6\. The conclusion drawn from everything Ronan knows about this dude who never shuts up on the other side of his door is this: He’s an absolute and hopeless weirdo. Ronan doesn’t judge. He’s made people cross the street in order to avoid passing him before and he takes pride in it, so of course he doesn’t judge. But Ronan’s brand of weirdness is consistent, at least. Combat boots, leather jacket, ink, bloody knuckles, empty eyes and heavy silence - Ronan has a whole aesthetic going on. But Ganseyboy? Nothing about him makes sense. 

He’s too well educated to be a construction worker but it seems like he works hard because he likes the job, even if he’s probably doing it for the first time. He has incredible knowledge of countless random things, things that are neither particularly interesting nor particularly useful. If Declan knew Ganseyboy, he’d probably cry over the wasted potential of such a bright brain filled with so much nonsense. It might be part of why Ronan likes the guy. 

You’re not supposed to judge books by their covers and you’re not supposed to try and put people in boxes, but if four years of high school teach you anything at all, then it’s exactly that. Maybe it’s because Ronan hasn’t seen him yet, but if he had to, he wouldn’t know how to place Ganseyboy at all. The more stupid little details get added to his list, the less he actually knows about this man. And fuck if Ronan isn’t intrigued by that. 

Ronan takes a swig from his beer and makes himself more comfortable against his 

pillows. The voices outside his door turn quieter. Murmuring becomes humming, soft and low. Ronan closes his eyes and puts his beer away, feeling atypically calm and soothed, entirely comfortable letting his mind drift off and far away as his body sinks deeper into the cushions and reality melts away around him. Maybe he should have gotten himself a Ganseyboy to sing him to sleep way sooner… 

*

“Dude, we thought you were dead in a ditch somewhere.” Although Noah’s statement might suggest concern, the tone with which he utters it doesn’t. 

Ronan jerks awake and rubs his eyes before he can properly focus on Noah and Blue standing right in his apartment. Maybe he shouldn’t have given away the second key to them, but then again, the two of them are one hundred percent of all the friends he’s got, and knowing himself, Ronan is aware he’s bound to lock himself out sooner or later, which is why he did it in the first place. Obviously not to be woken from well-deserved naps, not that either of his friends seems to care. 

“My phone died,” Ronan shrugs, momentarily forgetting what really happened to it, brain still in the process of fully waking up.

“Oh, did it?” Asks Blue. “Or was it murdered?” 

“Fuck off,” Ronan murmurs. Neither Blue nor Noah need a serious answer to that question. And what’s the difference anyway? 

“Did you know your brother has officially forbidden us to socialize with you for the next three days?” Noah changes the topic. He sounds amused by it, and in the end, the fact that his friends are currently sitting on his bed after coming to find him shows how seriously Declan’s threats are being taken. To be fair, this is on Declan, not on them. Sometimes Ronan can’t believe they’re related. 

“He says we’re not to distract you from your studies,” Blue adds while taking a yogurt out of Ronan’s fridge. The fact that she licks the lid every time before eating is even more annoying than the fact that she buys yogurt to store it in her friends’ kitchens. If she makes a mess on his bed, Ronan will throw her out of the window too. She’s short enough for it to work. 

More quietly, she says, “As if _we_ ’re the bad influence here.” Ronan can’t argue with that. 

“Apparently, you have a super important exam at the end of the week that your entire future depends on. We were just wondering whether you were aware of that.” 

Ronan rolls his eyes. If he ever commits murder, it will be Declan’s fault. 

“Speak for yourself,” Blue points out. “Maybe Noah is here to talk about the exam we all know you’re not taking. Personally, I’m more interested in any updates on the sexy construction worker, so spill it.” 

Ronan regrets telling them about Ganseyboy. So much. 

“No updates,” Ronan says simply. It’s true, really. No, he still doesn’t know what the guy looks like, or what his actual name is. He strongly doubts anybody but himself gives a shit which of the songs on the radio that day Ganseyboy knew the lyrics to, and he isn’t going to humiliate himself any further by trying to describe the sound of the guy’s voice again. 

“Don’t tell me you still haven’t made a move on the guy.” Noah rolls his eyes as if he has any right to feel disappointed. Not Ronan’s fault Noah was having expectations in the first place. Clearly, he should have known better. 

“Yeah, just give him your number already,” Blue nods. “Oh wait, no. Don’t give him your number. He’ll call your murdered phone and never reach you. How about you just talk to him the next time you see him in the hallway?” 

“I’ve never actually seen him in the hallway, remember?” Ronan points out. 

“Well duh. Wait until you can hear him and then, I don’t know, take the trash out or something. Say hi, make some small talk.” 

Ronan feels like he’s getting sick. “Small talk?” 

“Unfamiliar territory for you, I know,” says Noah. “Ask him how he’s doing, maybe offer a coffee? Try not to swear or insult him.” 

“You’re a dick, Noah.” 

“See, now that was an excellent example for the kind of language you should avoid when talking to your crush for the first time.” 

Ronan grabs his pillow and presses it over his face in case he needs to scream. “Can we not use the word crush?” He mutters into the pillow. “I’m not an eleven-year-old girl.” 

“You’re acting like one,” Blue says simply. And that’s what Ronan gets for having so-called friends. 

“I hate you guys.” Ronan needs to change the topic again, but not back to college or Declan. “We should go on a drive, see what’s going on outside.” 

Noah just laughs and Blue shakes her head vehemently. “I’m not getting in a car with you ever again,” she says, aggressively pointing at Ronan with her spoon. “You close your eyes for one second and wake up in the middle of a street race! I’m telling you, I will do worse things to your stupid precious car than you did to your phone, once I’ve had enough of your crimes.” 

“Crimes, seriously?” He gives Blue an annoyed look but she doesn’t seem to be impressed, so Ronan sways his gaze to Noah instead, but apparently he isn’t getting any sympathy that day. 

“Yeah no, I’m with her on that one,” Noah shrugs. “Someone needs to take your car away. And anyway, you’re just trying to distract us from your Prince Charming.” 

Ronan sighs deeply, but not deeply enough to express the depth of his annoyance, which might be physically impossible. “He’s not a Prince Charming. He’s a literal construction worker. It’s probably for the best if I never see him. What if he wears a wife beater with his chest bush coming out at the top. And a gold chain around his neck or something. Oh my god, what if he has a mustache? You know what, I think I’m over him.” 

“You’re being very judgmental right now,” Blue lets him know, which totally isn’t necessary because Ronan does know. It’s not that he thinks all construction workers look like what he just described, it’s more that every serious attempt his brain makes at imagining the guy fails. 

“What if he’s super hot?” Noah argues. “What if he looks like Adam Parrish?” 

“Who’s Adam Parrish?” Ronan asks. He totally knows who Adam Parrish is. 

“The boy you had a crush on all through high school,” Blue says matter-of-factly. “Noah says he gave you boners in Latin class by being smarter than you.” 

“Oh, fuck off.” 

“Why is that your default answer to everything, huh?” Blue asks. 

“Because I have to deal with the two of you,” Ronan informs her. He wants to add that Adam Parrish with his stupidly pretty face and even more stupidly southern accent would have made her drool a little too, but he feels like now isn’t really the time to admit to the fact that he has indeed been attracted to a person before. Ronan hates having weaknesses. And a vivid imagination, because now he’s picturing Adam Parrish in a blue overall and oh god, he needs to stop. 

“No more discussions,” Ronan declares as he jumps from his bed, “we’re going out. Now. Nino’s?”

“Don’t think you can distract us with pizza,” Noah says. 

“You can’t, but you can still buy us dinner while being unsuccessful at distracting us,” Blue points out. 

Ronan is very well aware of the fact that this battle isn’t won just because he’s putting on his leather jacket and leaving the apartment without any further words. The hallways may be empty now, and his friends’ minds focused on pizza for a while, but he’s in deep, and he fucking knows it. 

Too. Fucking. Deep.

*

By the time Ronan gets back home, the sun is setting behind his building. He uses the screwdriver he’s always got in his pocket to open the mailbox he lost the key to immediately after moving in, then slams it shut again when he discovers that only junk and advertisement has made it inside. He climbs the stairs to the second floor two at a time and rounds the corner to his apartment, feeling in desperate need for some music at deafening volume and alone time. 

He’s already standing in front of his door fumbling with the keys when he realizes that it wasn’t him who turned the lights in the hallway on. And that in fact, he isn’t alone. 

Ronan’s heart starts pounding against his ribcage immediately, because while his brain suggests that, _no, of course this isn’t happening, don’t be ridiculous, your life is not a fucking rom-com;_ his body knows better. He turns his head to the side. 

“Hey there,” says the guy on top of a ladder in the middle of the hallway, grinning down at Ronan. 

Ronan likes to think of himself as above-average intelligent, and historically, he’s not been one to lose his tongue, but it takes a second for him to process that _this,_ this is the moment, this is the face, this is the human person he’s been listening to for literal weeks, that he’s been waiting for in the mornings, that he’s been missing on the weekends. 

And that human person looks _good._

“Hey,” Ronan forces himself to say, and then his hands open the door for him while his brain blanks and he saves himself inside his apartment, slamming the door shut and leaning his back against it, head falling back and eyes searching the ceiling as if there was a chance to find God there. Ronan sends a prayer upwards that has no words because what even are the words for _this?_

After the minute he needs to breathe and reassure himself that he isn’t dying of a heart attack, Ronan presses his eyes shut, suddenly aware that he didn’t let himself take a proper look. He remembers a hand and the exact skin tone of a forearm, but not what the guy was wearing. He remembers brown hair and glasses, but not the color of his eyes. Goddamnit, Ronan. 

_Pretty,_ he thinks. That’s what he knows, but he couldn’t describe the way Ganseyboy looks with words. A sudden urge to take action overcomes Ronan. Honestly, he was fine listening to the voice all the time without ever seeing the face belonging to it, he truly was, even if that doesn’t mean he didn’t ever wonder. But what he’s been telling himself so he could be okay with it is that probably, Ganseyboy isn’t half as attractive as his voice, which has been easy enough to do, since Ronan isn’t exactly the type to fall for someone easily. 

But when he does, oh boy, he falls hard.

Everything is different now, because Ronan knows he’s been wrong. Ganseyboy could have been just a voice at the other side of the door for a few more weeks until the renovations are finished. He could have been that silly little story Blue and Noah would have re-told a million times just to tease Ronan. Ronan would have remembered the voice, would have always kept some of that curiosity about its owner with him, but the memory would have been one of many, would have blurred into all the other remnants of his youth one day. 

“Fuck,” Ronan whispers to himself. He pushes himself off of the door, afraid that Ganseyboy can hear his heavy breathing through it. Crossing his apartment with a few large steps, he opens his window and stares down into the bushes below him, contemplating the belated rescue of his phone and an emergency phone call to Noah, or Blue, or both, because Ronan himself isn’t equipped to deal with his situation and the knowledge he just gained. It feels like he’s been let in on a secret and now he has no way of processing it, no idea who to tell and not the faintest clue how to proceed. All he knows is that this secret, it’s sacred. 

He jumps. 

Thirty seconds later, Noah picks up. 

“Is this Declan?” Noah asks right away. “Because no, I haven’t seen Ronan, and no, I’m not telling him he’s in big trouble or whatever. You guys seriously need to start-”

“Dude,” Ronan interrupts him. 

“What a lovely surprise,” Noah replies, sarcasm clear in his tone. 

“Okay, listen,” Ronan tells him. He’s literally sitting in a bush below his window with his heart beating in his throat. He has no time for bullshit, not even from Noah. “I need your advice, but only if you can give it to me without judgment.” 

“Oh dear,” says Noah, “well, that explains why you aren’t calling Blue. I’m not making any promises, but you should definitely tell me what’s going on.”

Ronan sighs and buries his face in his palm. This was a mistake. Big time. What is he even supposed to say? 

“Oh, come on,” Noah presses after a brief silence between the two. “You know you want to tell me.” 

Unfortunately, he’s right. It’s not necessarily that Ronan wants Noah to know, or that he expects some truly valuable advice from him, but he wants to say it out loud just to see if his brain can make more sense of it then. 

“Fuck,” Ronan curses, clenching his hand into a fist. “He looks like someone you’d steal lunch money from, Noah. Except _hot.”_

“First of all, don’t pretend like you’d actually steal lunch money from anyone, you big softie. And second of all, _you met him?!”_ The last part of his answer is almost yelled into the phone, or at least it’s as close to yelling as Noah gets. 

“Not really,” Ronan admits. 

“But you know now that he’s hot?” 

“Yes.”

“So you’ve seen him.”

“No. I mean, yes. I mean, a little. Like, for a really short moment. And then I kind of ran away and jumped out of the window.” 

“Ah yes,” Noah says, “like any of us would do when seeing our crush for the first time. Ronan Lynch, you’ve really mastered the art of appearing normal now. Congratulations.” 

“What did I say about judgment, Noah?” 

“And what did I say about promises?” 

“I’m going to hang up now,” Ronan threatens, but they’re empty words. They both know him well enough to be aware that he would simply end the call if he meant it, that he’s lost and doesn’t know what to do, that he isn’t nearly as cool and untouchable as he likes to make himself look from the outside, that his hands are shaky right now and he _wants,_ but doesn’t _know._

“Is he still there?” Noah wants to know. 

Ronan forces himself to breathe calmly. “I don’t know. I mean, he was, like, five minutes ago.” 

“Did you talk to him?”

“No.” 

“Why not?” 

“Are you kidding right now?” Ronan whines into his phone. “I think we both know why not.” 

Because Ronan is Ronan, and talking isn’t exactly his strong suit even when it comes to literally any other person on the planet, but if you add that strange flutter that Ganseyboy gives him to the mix, and the element of his surprise, well… 

“Okay, listen,” Noah sighs. “My God you are so hopeless, Ronan. So, it’s kind of late, right? For him to still be working, I mean. Poor guy is probably super tired and overworked, don’t you think?”

“Uhhhh, probably?” 

“Coffee, Ronan, coffee. You should offer him some. And if the talking doesn’t work out, it was just you being nice to the construction guy working in your building.” 

“Me being nice,” Ronan murmurs, “sounds foolproof.” 

“Want me to change your entire personality over the phone first? Now get your ass up and get some.” 

“Oh my God,” Ronan groans. 

“Love you too, boo. It’s your turn now.” And with that, Noah is gone. 

Ronan gets up on his feet and shoves his dirty phone in his back pocket. Fortunately, he’s climbed into his apartment through the window before, although he lives on the second floor, so that isn’t the hard part. Once back inside, he presses his ear against the door to check if Ganseyboy is even still there. Noah does have a point, it’s kind of late for him to still be working, so Ronan better hurry up before he packs up his things and leaves. 

Really, it’s the perfect opportunity. The hallways are empty and quiet now, no other construction workers still around, nobody chatting with Ganseyboy like at literally all other times. If Ronan makes a move now and it ends in the tragic loss of his remaining dignity, nobody except Ganseyboy will ever know. 

So Ronan cooks some coffee and knocks over a pile of dirty dishes as he frantically cleans up one of the few unbroken coffee mugs he owns. He’s way too nervous and he hates that nothing about the situation is in his control, that he doesn’t even get to choose what he’s wearing as he does this, but what can he do? Will fucking up this opportunity really cause him deeper regrets than not trying at all? 

“Fuck,” Ronan mutters as he carries the cup of coffee to his door and some of it spills over his fingers. _Fuck,_ he thinks again as he steps into the hallway, faced with his own incapability of being casual and calm and collected at the thought of what he wants. _Fuck,_ it echoes through his mind as he approaches the young man currently painting the ceiling above them.

Ronan stops. He stares. And then reminds himself not to be a creep. He parts his lips in the hopes of somehow, by some sort of miracle, words making their way out. He feels stupid and closes his mouth again. Instead, he walks around the ladder that Ganseyboy is standing on, putting the coffee he’s brought down on the top step a little too harshly. Some of it spills out, but he has the guy’s attention, and he’s gotten about eighty percent of the coffee delivered, and he hasn’t died of embarrassment yet. 

“Hello,” says Ganseyboy, looking down with a crooked smile. He can only make eye-contact with one eye because of the white paint drying on his glasses and covering the other one. 

Ronan makes a mental note. Brown, his eyes are brown. Like those of billions of other people on the planet, but not ordinary. They’re anything but. 

“Um, coffee,” Ronan says once he realizes that it’s been quiet for too long. “I thought you could use some. It’s pretty late and you’re still working, so…” He makes a vague gesture at the cup. 

Ganseyboy lowers his paintbrush and climbs down. “How very kind of you,” he says, smiling widely. He puts the brush down and picks up the mug instead, but then he seems to think better of it, transferring it to his left hand and offering the right one to Ronan, either not realizing or not caring that it’s smeared with paint.

“I’m Gansey.” 

Ronan isn’t entirely sure what he expected to happen once he would finally solve the mystery about Ganseyboy’s real name, but just Gansey isn’t much of an impressive revelation. 

“Ronan.” He shakes Gansey’s hand. 

“Ronan.” For some reason, Gansey repeats it, like he has to try it out for himself after hearing it from Ronan, with an expression on his face that betrays a little insecurity. Ronan doesn’t know what to make of it. “Thank you for the coffee, Ronan.” 

“You too,” Ronan nods. Because he’s an idiot, apparently. And because his heart is beating so loudly that he can’t hear his thoughts anymore. And because _Gansey._ “Um, thank you for your work, I mean. There were some grammatically incorrect insults on these walls when I moved in here and I’m actually really glad I don’t have to see them anymore.” 

“Because it bothers you to live in a building where insults are written on the walls or because of the bad grammar?” Gansey asks before taking a sip from the coffee. 

“Mostly the latter,” Ronan shrugs. He himself is very much the type to vandalize a building if someone gives him good reason. But he wouldn’t be caught looking stupid doing so. 

“I see,” Gansey says with a smile, and then he continues to look Ronan right in the eyes, and he continues to look extremely attractive while Ronan just wishes he was more like Blue, because she would know something to say to him in that moment. Anything would be good.

“Well,” Gansey says, “I’m not exactly a master at any of this stuff yet, but you have my word, Ronan, that I will do my best to make your home look the best it can.” 

Ronan pretends not to notice as paint drips from the brush in Gansey’s hand as he gestures around. And he also pretends not to be staring at the guy with the intention of burning every detail into his memory just in case he never gets to see him again. 

“I’m sure you will,” Ronan replies. 

“Will you check up on it? Let me know how I’m doing?” 

Ronan didn’t think his heart could go any more crazy, but it can, and it’s happening. Is Gansey… _flirting_ with him? No. Surely that can’t be what’s going on. 

“Of course. But I’m warning you, I have very high standards.” 

Gansey laughs and _holy shit, that laugh._ “Have I mentioned that I’m pretty much a total beginner? Don’t set yourself up for disappointment. I couldn’t bear it if you’d end up being disappointed by me.” 

Ronan shakes his head. He wishes he could tell that man in front of him how ridiculous the thought is. Disappointed? Ronan has never in his life seen a human person more perfect. 

“I’m not that worried,” he says quietly as he takes back the empty coffee mug from Gansey. 

“We’ll see, I guess, the next time you come to examine my work.” 

“Guess we will.”

Ronan slowly retreats back inside his apartment, watching Gansey watch him with a smile. As soon as the door is closed, he leans against it and slides down until he’s sitting on the floor. With trembling hands, he pulls his phone out of his pocket and texts Noah: _Ha, loser. I did it._

He’s not sure who the loser is out of the two of them, or how the hell he managed to actually talk to Gansey and not mess it up, or how they ended up more or less agreeing to see each other again. Really, Ronan isn’t sure about anything anymore. All that’s going through his head is _Gansey, Gansey, Gansey._

*

Ronan freezes when he hears the knock against his door. _Gansey?_ He looks down at himself, and granted, the situation isn’t ideal. He’s wearing boxer shorts and a tank top that he’s been sleeping in for a couple of days. His legs are way too white to be seen and he hasn’t shaved and meanwhile Gansey is looking like a damn prince, he just knows it. 

“Ronan?” 

Well, and if the possibility of Gansey standing in front of his door was somewhat suboptimal, then this is a nightmare come true. 

“Ronan, goddamnit, I can hear you breathing. I know you’re in there.” 

Declan. Of course. Ronan hasn’t wanted to kill himself for at least 48 consecutive hours, after all. 

“What happened to your phone, Ronan? Have you even been reading my emails?” 

And seriously, if Declan has to ask that, then Ronan doesn’t know what to tell him. Ronan stares at the door, his body still like paralyzed, his brain busy considering his options. For a solid ten seconds, he genuinely thinks about jumping out of the window, since that seems to be a thing he does now.

In the end, Ronan slips into the bathroom as quietly as possible and turns on the water in the shower. _Terribly sorry dear brother, I was in the shower, I must have not heard you knocking._ He sits on the closed toilet for a minute while the water is getting hot, but who knows how long Declan plans on staying in front of his door, so he might as well hop in. 

Showering, to Ronan, is another one of those treacherous things, like sleep, that are supposed to rest and calm and soothe him, like they seem to do everyone else in the world, but fail tragically at their job every time he gives them a shot. He likes the heat and the pressure of the water when it hits his shoulders, but he can’t put his head under the water without thinking about drowning, and once the little bathroom is fogged up enough, he finds it hard to breathe. The rushing of the water might drown out any noise from outside his shower, but his thoughts only become louder then, and if that isn’t the least relaxing thing he can imagine, then Ronan doesn’t know what is.

Ronan washes his body quickly so he can get out of the shower again, praying that Declan isn’t still standing there in the hallway like the creep that he is. He dries his face and then wraps the towel around his waist, trying to get from the bathroom to the beers in his fridge without making a sound, which he seriously hates Declan for. 

“Hello, can I help you?” 

Again, there are words audible through Ronan’s door, but they’re Gansey’s this time. A moment later, he hears Declan’s reply, confusion tainting the attempted confidence in his tone. 

“No. I’m here to… visit.” 

“I’m afraid he isn’t home,” Gansey says then, and his voice isn’t tainted by anything at all, he sounds perfectly _Gansey_ , polite and self-assured and like he knows what he’s saying. 

“I’m actually very certain he is,” Declan tells Gansey. Meanwhile, Ronan stands at the other side of his door, frozen to the spot, unsure what exactly he’s witnessing right now. 

“Sorry.” It’s Gansey again. “I saw him leaving earlier. Not that long ago, actually, so it might be a while before he comes back.” 

Ronan isn’t usually the type to let his emotions show on his face, but nobody can see him, and anyway, he can’t help himself. He has to grin. Ganseyboy is lying to Declan for him. 

Through the damn door, Ronan can hear a deep sigh. “Well, fine,” Declan says, and Ronan can physically feel it as he turns away and disappears from directly in front of the other side of said door, finally leaving him alone. Except Ronan doesn’t feel alone. _Thank you, Gansey._

“Have a lovely afternoon,” Gansey calls after Declan and at that, Ronan has to bite his fist to keep from laughing out loud. He can just picture the look on Declan’s face so well, the horror at being played by a random construction worker with nothing but a fake smile. A damn good smile, to be fair. It really isn’t Declan’s fault this time. Nobody stands a chance against Gansey. 

Ronan shakes his head softly and Gansey’s voice turns quieter as he begins chatting with, presumably, one of his colleagues. It’s the moment when Ronan should turn away, get dried off and dressed, or crawl into bed or get himself the beer he’s been craving, but he remains there at the door, standing so close that he could lean forward and press his forehead against it, single droplets of water running down his chest, towel wrapped around his waist. 

  
  


Ronan doesn’t know what’s wrong with him, but he can’t seem to pull himself away. There’s nothing even remotely interesting about Gansey’s monologue about growing mint plants, and yet, it’s the only thing he wants to listen to for the rest of his life. 

_“... you know, the funny thing is, I only got a small mint plant as a companion plant back when I still had a whole bunch of others. They’re excellent for that, actually, because they grow under all sorts of different conditions - sunlight, shade, moist spots - and they repel pesty insects. But then I started really liking the mint leaves and now it’s the only thing I grow.”_

It’s so not a talk Ronan should want to be hearing. The problem is, now that he knows what Gansey looks like while he talks, he’s kind of a little obsessed. He has no trouble at all picturing Gansey working, a paint brush in his hand and sprinkles of dry paint on his glasses, accidental streaks in his hair. He’s probably chewing on a mint leaf right now, and it makes him smell of it. If he’s wearing another one of those pastel-colored polos, it highlights the bronzed skin of his arms and oh boy, his arms. 

Without thinking, at least not about anything non-Gansey-related, Ronan braces his forearm against the door and lets his head drop against it. Gansey has broad shoulders and muscled arms that are just to die for, with a fine, golden fuzz of hair covering his forearms, but the best part are his hands. 

It’s automatically the first thing Ronan takes conscious note of when meeting a person - their hands. Gansey’s are neither big nor small, not quite as rough and calloused as Ronan would have expected them considering Gansey’s job. They’re soft and cautious and purposeful, confident in the way they reach for something and casual in the way they hold things. Ronan hasn’t had nearly enough time to watch them, but he knows that he likes the way they move, the way Gansey’s wrist bends and turns and that it’s all it takes to _create._

_“... and another good thing is, you really only need a tiny plant and it provides you with so many leaves, because they grow remarkably fast. You shouldn’t store the leaves, they’re only good when they’re fresh, but that really is no problem at all if you have a plant at home…”_

Ronan’s free hand somehow finds its way underneath the towel. As ridiculous as it is, being turned on by Gansey’s home gardening lectures, especially as someone who tends to need hours to find acceptable porn for an at least halfway satisfactory wank, Ronan can’t change the fact that he’s now getting hard listening to it, and he doesn't plan to. 

_“... most people aren’t even aware of how many different kinds of mint there are. I tried some, and I have to admit I really liked apple mint, but I’m sticking with peppermint. Not too adventurous, but I like it best…”_

Ronan’s towel drops to the floor, and it might be because he’s been moving his hand up and down underneath it. Ronan doesn’t care. Maybe he would, if he had a thought to spare on anything other than Gansey with his stupid voice and his stupid hands and his stupid pretty face and how he’s using them to make a mess of Ronan without even trying. 

Ronan closes his eyes and lets the visions flash through his brain, taking away his self-control one at the time. Gansey putting a fresh mint leaf in his mouth. It being Gansey’s hand that’s wrapped around Ronan’s cock, long fingers squeezing tight, the veins from the back of his hand to his forearms, muscles flexing under his skin, thumb brushing Ronan’s tip. Gansey’s lips and the way they form his little Gansey-smiles. The glasses sitting on his nose and the bit of white paint drying on them and what if it wasn’t paint? 

Ronan bites his fist again. It’s the only way to stop the moans that want out of him. Usually, he needs a more comfortable position than leaned against a door, and the right music playing at the right volume and the right temperature in the room to be comfortable naked. Usually, he needs to take it slow or it all leads nowhere at all, needs a good amount of lube and preferably one of the small toys he keeps in the drawer by the bed. 

Usually, masturbating is a whole routine that entails several important elements he’s had to figure out and perfect over the years, and even then there are times where the release comes without the pleasure-explosion. 

In simple words, it takes a lot. 

Or, it takes a Gansey. 

With a grunt he can’t keep inside and trembling legs, Ronan comes and paints his side of the door with his release, standing there and trembling through the aftershocks of his orgasm, biting his hand so hard that the indents of his teeth are deep and well visible after. 

Moments later, he can finally step back and look at his masterpiece. 

“Would you look at that,” Gansey says at the other side of the door. “Not a bad job I’ve done here, wouldn’t you agree?” 

*

Ronan waits. He takes another brief shower to get cleaned up, puts on a pair of ripped jeans and a black t-shirt, eats a slice of dry toast because he hasn’t done proper grocery shopping in weeks. He sits down with his back against the door that he’s cleaned of his own come and shame as well as possible without owning any cleaning utensils worthy of that name. And then he waits. Listens.

He could do this for hours. He probably has spent hours in total doing it already. Doing nothing except waiting for the next time Gansey’s voice finds its way to his ears from the other side of the door, adding new scraps of information about him to his list. Sitting still until the construction guys are packing up their things. Getting nervous, afraid he’ll choke on his own pounding heart when Gansey declares he’ll stay around and finish his work since he yet has to become as time-efficient as his colleagues. 

Ronan rubs his hands over his face until it’s gone quiet in the hallway. He gets up and sticks his head out of his apartment. Gansey smiles at him immediately, almost as if he knew Ronan would come out of hiding as soon as the coast is clear. 

“Hello, Ronan Lynch.” 

Ronan finds it weird that Gansey calls him by his full name. Usually, that either means he is in trouble, or it reminds him of his relation to Declan. And what does a nineteen-year-old with no achievements and no responsibilities need a surname for anyway? 

Somehow, he doesn't mind Gansey saying it. Maybe because he’s too busy imagining Gansey standing in front of the thirty mailboxes downstairs trying to find out Ronan’s name in the first place. How crazy would it be if that was what happened?

“Hey,” he says. “Uh, thanks, I guess. For earlier.” 

“Don’t mention it,” Gansey replies, waving his paintbrush through the air as if to brush the whole topic away. But Ronan does want to mention it. Or something else. Anything he can use to talk to Gansey again. He takes a deep breath out. 

“Do you want a coffee?” 

Gansey tilts his head slightly and smiles again. “Do _you_ want a coffee, Ronan Lynch?” 

Ronan doesn’t really know how to respond. “Sure.” He can’t remember actually being sure of anything. 

“Cool. But it’s my turn this time. Get dressed.” 

Ronan doesn’t exactly have an understanding of how he gets from that to sitting in the passenger seat of Gansey’s car five minutes later, but something about Gansey’s words and the way he uttered them has made him put his boots and a hoodie on and follow the guy outside to a car he still needs some time to process. 

“Ronan Lynch,” says Gansey, turning the key in the ignition and waiting until the engine roars to life, then turning to him with a big smile and adding, “this is The Pig.” 

Ronan makes a mental note to be added to his things-about-Gansey-list: The guy is crazy. And Ronan loves it. 

“That’s a pretty cool car,” Ronan says, trying to sound casual when in fact, the bright orange Camaro is probably the only thing that can make his wet dreams about Gansey even better. 

“You say that now,” Gansey laughs. “Wait until it breaks down halfway to the coffee shop and you get to sit at the side of the road with me for a couple of hours.” 

Ronan laughs, but secretly he’s already praying for exactly that to happen. 

“That wasn’t entirely a joke, you know. Driving The Pig when you actually want to go somewhere is kind of like Russian Roulette. There’s a realistic chance you’ll never reach your destination, and an even more realistic chance that it will wreck your nerves.”

“Then why do you have it?” Ronan asks. The coolest car he’s ever seen in real life doesn’t exactly seem like Gansey’s style. Quite frankly, the guy looks like a total preppy. Or an overgrown fifth-grader whose mom just combed his hair. The haircut was definitely expensive and then the grandpa-glasses and the polo-shirts? Obviously Ronan still finds him extremely attractive, which is more than a little weird. 

For a few seconds, Gansey almost seems at a loss for words, but of course, he manages to put his casual smile back on. “I just wanted it. I also thought it would be easier to teach myself some basics about cars. Technically, it wasn’t so much that I failed in doing so. The issue is more that this is quite an old model and my basic knowledge doesn’t get me very far with it. But I’ve gotten attached, you see. It has immeasurable emotional value.” 

Ronan generally believes he loves his BMW, but a couple of weeks earlier, when he almost trashed it during a street-race, he briefly thought about what other car to get next before he barely saved his ass and car and the question became superfluous as fast as it had arisen. 

“Yeah,” he nodded, “I get that.” The truth is, Ronan doesn’t get anything when it comes to Gansey. 

In the end, they make it to the coffee shop with The Pig in one piece and still running. Gansey buys them both coffee and a muffin, which Ronan didn’t ask for, but it makes Gansey smile a pretty satisfied smile as he holds the pastry out to Ronan. He croaks out a thank you and silently curses his Irish skin for making blushes so well and easily visible on his face. 

“So, that thing earlier,” Gansey says as they both sit on the hood of The Pig and sip their coffee. “At your door.” 

_Fuck,_ Ronan thinks, _how does he know I got off on his plant talk?_

“You don’t owe that guy money, do you?”

_Oh. That thing._

Ronan sets his cup down and sighs. “My brother,” he growls. 

“I take it you don’t get along well. What did he want from you?” 

Ronan laughs dryly. “I’m not even sure. Give me a speech about responsibility? Check if I’m being a good boy and studying? Put me on a leash? Fuck if I know, but it’s never good.” 

“Are you in college?” Gansey wants to know. 

Ronan shrugs. “Not really.” 

“Not really?” 

“You’d have to ask my brother if they’ve kicked me out already or not. It’s pretty much a matter of time.” 

“What do you want to do, then?” Gansey asks. 

“What do you mean?” 

“Well, it sounds like you’re not exactly a big fan of college. So what do you want to do if not that?” 

Ronan shakes his head lightly. “You’re gonna laugh at me.” 

“I’m twenty-two years old,” says Gansey, and he sounds serious, “and I have no idea who I am. I came to Henrietta just this summer. I bought a huge building and I’m not sure what to do with it yet. I started working in construction because I thought I could pick up a few useful skills. I’m a younger brother too, you know. I don’t think I would hide from my sister if she came knocking on my door, but I know she doesn’t understand why I don’t want to be like her. Why I traded a villa in D.C. and a fancy college and a career in politics for this. For nothing in particular. For just doing what I want until I actually know what I want.” 

Ronan looks up at him. He isn’t laughing. It’s not meant to be funny. 

“A farm,” Ronan says, for the first time in his life. “I want a farm. A bunch of cows and pigs and horses and chickens.” He stops. He doesn’t know why he said it. He’s wearing combat boots and a black hoodie that hides the huge tattoo covering his neck, shoulders and back. Ronan Lynch is sharp and dangerous. And a farm-boy at heart. Not even Noah or Blue know this. 

It’s for a moment and Ronan prepares himself for Gansey to laugh despite what he told Ronan about himself. Ronan looks down at his hands, reminding himself that it’s stupid. Stupid to be thinking about a farm and stupid to expect anyone else to understand.

“Is it true that roosters do a circle dance when courting a hen?” 

Ronan releases his breath and laughs. “Yeah,” he says, only then daring to look up at Gansey again and finding him smiling back. “It looks really weird, actually. Sometimes the hen just runs away when that happens. If she’s unwilling to, you know, copulate. You really can’t blame them.” 

“I think I want to see that sometime,” Gansey says. 

“That’s only because you haven’t yet,” Ronan replies.

“Promise me,” Gansey says, looking at Ronan not through his glasses but over them, “that when you have your farm and your chickens, you will invite me so I can see a chicken-courting-dance.” 

“How would that even work? Am I supposed to tell my hypothetical roosters when to court my hypothetical hens?” Ronan asks with bemusement. “For _your_ entertainment?”

Gansey shrugs his shoulders and uncaps a marker by taking the cap between his teeth. “Doesn’t matter,” he says around it, “the focus lies more on the part where you invite me over.” Ronan is still processing this as Gansey simply grabs his hand, because sure, that is an entirely normal thing to simply do, then pushes Ronan’s sleeve up and out of the way and starts writing digits, presumably his phone number. He didn’t even ask if Ronan has a phone with him to maybe just save the number in his contacts like a normal person, that damn sexy weirdo. 

“Can I use this number before I actually own a farm?”

“No,” says Gansey with a hilarious expression of fake strictness on his face. “I exclusively date cowboys. If you don’t greet me with a _Yeehaw_ I will hang up immediately and never talk to you again, sorry.” 

“You are really something,” Ronan says, but what he means is, _you are everything._

“Yeehaw,” says Gansey, pulling Ronan’s sleeve back down to his wrist and taking a bite from his muffin. 

Ronan thought he was fucked earlier that day when he touched himself to the sound of Gansey’s voice, but the situation is far more dire, he knows now. Ronan isn’t just fucked, he’s in love. 

Ronan Lynch.

_In love._

*

Ronan isn’t insane enough to have the sound of his phone turned on, which means that, at least, it doesn’t ring, but the screen lights up about ten times in one morning anyway. DBag Lynch is calling. And just like that, the daydream Ronan has been enjoying is ruined. 

He doesn’t pick up. He doesn’t read the text messages either, not even one of them. It’s not like he has to. He’s fairly certain that it’s Friday and even more certain that he slept through the exam he was supposed to take at eight o’clock, his one last shot at college.

He’s going to have to listen to Declan’s lecture eventually.

_What am I supposed to do with you, Ronan?_

Easy, leave him the fuck alone. 

_Are you even thinking about your future, Ronan?_

Not if he can help it. 

_You need to start taking responsibility for yourself, Ronan._

Responsibility. Big yikes. Ronan shudders at the thought. Being nineteen has to be about more than worrying about when you’ll be thirty. It _has to._ It’s not even noon and Ronan already wants to kick something. 

A knock on the door disrupts his sour thoughts and immediately triggers even worse ones. Ronan groans, but this time, he isn’t in the mood to hide in the shower. He thinks about jumping out of the window again, but when he balls his hands into fists it feels too right, so he storms to the door instead, ready to throw punches, tearing it open violently. Sometimes an attack is the best defense and Ronan is tired of defending himself. 

Declan better not be wearing that condescending look on his dumb face, Ronan thinks. He better not be looking down at him like...

It’s not that look that he finds. 

It’s also not Declan’s face. 

“Oh,” Ronan says, momentarily incapable of hiding his surprise. It’s Gansey, and Ronan should probably be worried by how fast he goes soft once he realizes. 

“How sensitive are you when it comes to blood?” Gansey asks. His shy smile looks wrong somehow. Slightly off. Not quite _Gansey._

Blood. Ronan thinks about the taste of it. He’s had it running from his nose or a split lip into his mouth before. He thinks about the bleeding when he got the tattoo on his back. And then his father… 

But Gansey doesn’t know about the gruesome death of Niall Lynch. That’s not what this is about. It can’t be. Ronan isn’t that teenage boy anymore, standing helplessly, staring, smelling blood and trying to scream for help, trying to do _anything…_

Ronan shakes the memories out of his head somewhat successfully. He shrugs. “Not very sensitive.” If years of therapy haven’t made him, then this isn’t the moment to admit to his trauma either. 

Gansey nods and exhales. He looks uncomfortable. Actually, he’s way less golden than Ronan remembers him and more pale instead. 

“Gansey? Are you okay?” 

Gansey is also hiding his hands behind his back. Ronan is getting nervous. 

“I slipped.” 

“Show me your hands,” Ronan says, unsure about how much blood exactly he should be preparing himself for. 

Considering Gansey’s simple _‘I slipped.’_ it’s surprisingly much. He holds out his left hand, cupped as if he was holding something in it, except it’s only the blood he doesn’t want to drip on the floor. Ronan can’t even tell what’s beneath it. 

“Okay,” Ronan says, wrapping his own hands around Gansey’s forearms and gently pulling him inside. “Don’t worry, we’ll get that cleaned up.” He’s very much worried, but Gansey looks a little beside himself at the moment and Ronan is overcome with a relatively unfamiliar need to take care and offer comfort. 

Luckily, Ronan isn’t all that new to tending to a bloody wound. He’s got everything he needs in his bathroom as well as a not insignificant amount of experience. 

“We gotta clean your hands up first so we can see what we’re working with here,” Ronan says, turning on the cold water and pulling Gansey’s hands under it. The right one is uninjured, just bloody. The left one is slashed open from one side of the palm to the other. Ronan inspects the cut carefully and comes to the conclusion that it isn’t deep enough to require stitches, although he did steal some of that glue they use to seal open wounds from the ER. There’s no need to use it, really. They only need to get Gansey’s hand cleaned up and get it bandaged. 

Ronan is busy rubbing blood from Gansey’s fingers when he suddenly feels Gansey leaning into him, shoulder to shoulder, warm pressure. It’s nice, for a second, but Gansey is quiet and his hand looks nasty if Ronan is completely honest and Gansey only keeps falling against him and _shit._

“Hey,” Ronan says softly. He turns off the water and turns to Gansey, catching his weight, slowly guiding him to sit on the toilet. “You’re not gonna faint on me just because you’re bleeding a little, are you?” 

Gansey shakes his head. Ronan is not convinced. He turns Gansey’s hand up and puts a towel under it. Once he’s made sure that Gansey is leaned safely against the wall, he gathers the supplies he needs. 

“Hey, um, you know what you haven’t told me about yet?” Ronan tries to distract Ganey. Maybe himself, too, just a little. How come blood and pain are so much more scary when they’re not his own?

“Hmm.”

“Your house. You said you bought one when you came to Henrietta and that you’re trying to teach yourself a couple of skills to do something with it. What’s it like?” 

“Huge,” says Gansey and then hisses when Ronan dabs disinfectant onto the wound. 

“Is it old? What do you want it to look like when it’s all done?” 

Gansey shrugs. When he hasn’t responded a few seconds later, Ronan looks up from his hand. Gansey looks out of order. He’s seen the guy sweaty and a little dirty from work, hair messy and sprinkled with paint, but it’s different in that very moment. Gansey’s glasses have lowered themselves towards the tip of his nose and behind them, his eyes are wide and glassy, fixating his injured hand although Ronan can’t be sure he’s seeing anything. 

“Don’t look there,” Ronan tells him, “look at me. Can you tell what color my eyes are?” 

Gansey tears his gaze away from the blood, but Ronan isn’t convinced he has all of his attention. 

“Blue,” Gansey whispers, “but I already knew that.” 

Ronan is a terrible person. He’s genuinely a little worried about Gansey, but he can’t ignore the fact that he’s currently kneeling in front of him and touching his hands. That the scent of Gansey is settling in his little bathroom and he’s allowed to take care of him. That Gansey has noticed his eyes before and doesn’t mind admitting it. A part of him feels grateful for the cut across Gansey’s palm because this is a moment that couldn’t have been born from normal circumstances, and he will treasure the memory of it even if it makes him feel guilty. 

“All cleaned up,” Ronan murmurs, rolling up a piece of cotton and pressing it against Gansey’s palm. He can feel Gansey’s eyes still watching his face and it takes all the strength he’s got to not let it make his hands shaky as he wraps Gansey’s hand in a bandage. 

“See, this is probably going to feel a little stiff, but I did that on purpose so it can heal better. Because your palm moves too much otherwise when you use your hands. Is this okay?” 

Gansey pushes his glasses up and raises his hand, examining Ronan’s work. “Thank you,” he says, voice rough. Ronan wants to put his head in his lap. Or kiss the fingers coming out of the bandage.

He gets up and starts washing his own hands. This is not the right moment to be thirsting over Gansey. “You don’t have to thank me for that,” he says, mostly because he enjoyed the whole thing a little too much to be comfortable with it. 

*

“How’s the hand doing?” Ronan asks, sitting down on one of the stairs near where Gansey is busy taping a door frame to protect it from the white paint for the walls. He sets down the cups of coffee he brought, waiting for Gansey to turn around and look at him with a face that is hopefully less pale than the day before. 

“Pretty good, I think,” Gansey says, smiling as he waves his bandaged left hand in front of Ronan’s face as if to show him. “Seeing the blood was the worst part, I guess. Sorry about that, by the way.” 

“Don’t apologize. I get it, it’s not very pleasant.” 

“You didn’t seem to have much of a problem with it yesterday,” Gansey points out. He gulps down half of his coffee at once, wipes some sweat off his forehead and resumes his tape work. 

Ronan shrugs. “Someone needed to clean it up, you didn’t look like you were going to do it on your own. But I’m not a fan of the smell either, so I’d appreciate it if you could take care of those hands of yours in the future and not injure yourself. The same goes for the rest of you, obviously.” 

“I think I can try to do that. And in return,-”

“In return?” Ronan interrupts him. “Why is this a negotiation?” 

“Because I want something from you and I’m not above using your dislike of smelling my blood to my advantage.” 

“Fucking hell, Gansey,” Ronan mutters. Meanwhile, in his head he replays the words ‘ _I want something from you’_ over and over again like they’re his new favorite song. 

“Hear me out, okay?” 

And how can Ronan say no to that? 

“You asked about my house,” Gansey says. “I know you were just trying to distract me, but I want to show you it. Only if you’re interested, of course. The thing is, I can’t really put into words what I want to do with it. Sometimes I look at a certain corner and I get these ideas in my head, but they’re not plans, they’re just… very fleeting concepts? Pieces of very specific aesthetics? It doesn’t make sense to just talk about it. I think you’d have to see for yourself. I’ll throw in some dinner too, what do you say?” 

“I visit your castle and let you feed me dinner and in return you don’t cut any more body parts of yours open? Sounds like a pretty good deal to me.” 

“Awesome, does Monmouth Manufacturing mean anything to you?”

“Don’t tell me you live in an entire warehouse,” Ronan says. Monmouth Manufacturing must have been abandoned a long time ago. Blue, Noah and he used to sneak in there to explore the property when they were in middle school. The building is huge and the yard even more so. 

“The first time I saw it, I knew there would come a day when I would know something great to do with it. The vision is still not very clear, but I know it’s there. And since you seem to know where it is, I’ll meet you there tonight, yeah? I just need enough time to shower and get some groceries after I finish up work.”

Ronan nods happily and Gansey moves on to one of those endless topics he has something to say about. For a couple of hours, Ronan stays out in the hallway, following Gansey so he can listen, providing him with more coffee, lean back to watch the muscles in Gansey’s shoulder work under his shirt, to trace his arm and always get stuck on his hand again, its gentle movements soothing him. 

Like that, Ronan forgets the world and the existence of time, and when they say their goodbyes as Gansey leaves, he already misses him even though he’s going over to Gansey’s in just two hours. 

“Fuck,” Ronan mutters to himself as realization strikes. “Fuck!” Frantically, he searches for his phone and starts a group-call with the only two people who know him well enough to not be surprised by any of the chaos inside his head. 

“Help,” he says as soon as his friends are on the phone. 

“With what?” Blue wants to know. “Bail money? Please don’t tell me what you did to your brother now.” 

Ronan sighs. “This is not that kind of emergency.”

“What kind of emergency is it, then?” Noah asks. 

“Gansey,” Ronan answers, unsure as to how to put the rest into comprehensible sentences. 

“You know how we’ve been hanging out over coffee? Well, I guess we’re hanging out over dinner now. Like, tonight. At his place.” 

Both Blue and Noah start screaming. For a solid minute. It’s not at all what Ronan called them for and it’s not the slightest bit helpful. 

“Ronan has a daaaaaay-aaaaate,” Blue sings while Noah just laughs. What Ronan has is the thought of murder. 

“It’s not. We’re just hanging out. It’s not a-” _Wait. Is it?_

“Oh, it totally is a date,” Noah says. “Please do us all a favor and don’t be that cliché of a guy thinking you’re just being bros when you’re actually being gay.”

“Oh my god, what’s the dress code for being gay?” 

“Are you serious?” Blue asks. “Just wear what you always wear. Don’t put on anything fancy and weird. I’ve seen you in a shirt and tie. You look like your brother.” 

“Also,” Noah chimes in, “if he’s asked you out, that means he likes you. I mean, we knew that before, but now not even you can deny it anymore. He’s into you. And he’s into that asshole with the crappy place and the dirty boots, no offense. Just don’t try to be anyone you’re not.” 

“Cool, cool,” Ronan says, “except who am I when I’m not trying to be someone else? Do I even have a personality? Oh my God, why did I agree to this? He’s totally going to realize that he wants nothing to do with me.” 

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Ronan, shut your mouth.” 

Blue. Bless her. She doesn’t swear a lot usually, unlike Ronan. To the effect that, when she does, it hits. 

“I’m just…” 

“Nervous, yeah,” Noah finishes his sentence. “It’d be weird if you weren’t. But you have no reason to. The guy likes you. You thought you’d never even see him, but you did. And then you thought you couldn’t talk to him, but you did. And look how much time you’ve spent together since then. I’m not worried at all. Seriously. At all. Blue?” 

“Nope,” she says promptly. “Not at all.”

“Your unlimited faith in me won’t save me,” Ronan sighs, but the truth is, it still feels good to hear it.

“I bet Prince Charming is,” Blue laughs. 

“Fuck,” Ronan mutters. He’s actually going to do this. 

*

“Is there anything you’re allergic to?” Gansey asks as Ronan follows him into a huge and mostly empty kitchen. There are pots and pans and utensils lying around as well as groceries, but there seems to be no system in place. Ronan has a feeling that all the cupboards are empty. 

“Sorry about the mess, I don’t usually use this room. I have a fridge in my bathroom upstairs and that’s all I need most days.” 

Ronan doesn’t even bother asking. It’s just another Gansey thing. Of course he has a fridge in the bathroom, why wouldn’t he? 

“So, any allergies I should know of?” 

Ronan takes a seat on one of the barstools at the kitchen counter. “No allergies.” 

“Any dislikes? I was thinking about making pasta. Nothing fancy, maybe I’ll throw together a salad. But I can make whatever.” 

“Wow, so you really know how to cook, huh?” It’s not really a question. Ronan can tell how correct his assumption is by the way Gansey holds the knife he just pulled from a block in the corner. 

“I don’t have a very big repertoire, to be honest. I picked up a few things here and there. I moved out of my parent’s place for the first time when I was fifteen, so yeah, of course I had to teach myself some basics. But I’ve spent more time perfecting simple dishes I like than learning anything more sophisticated.” 

“That’s still a lot more than I can do,” Ronan admits, thinking but not talking about how he became a teenage orphan with an unbreakable will to boycott any and all of his older brother’s attempts to feed him home-made things and how the only thing he’s learned from it is which the best food delivery services in Henrietta are. 

“Cooking,” says Gansey, looking up at Ronan with a smile so unbearably gentle, “isn’t really about skill, Ronan.” He places two wine glasses between the two of them and Ronan briefly panics about the possibility of Gansey asking him what sort of wine he would like - fuck if he knows - but Gansey pours him some red wine and somewhere between that moment and the second glass, the anxiety goes away without Ronan noticing. 

Quite frankly, what Gansey is doing to him is entirely unfair. It’s like Ronan was asked to lay down his weapons at the door to the strange castle that is former Monmouth Manufacturing. He didn’t think he could feel safe without them, without the anxiety, the fight or flight instinct, the cynicism, but as he finds himself sitting in an old, messy kitchen, disarmed and helpless, watching Gansey’s glasses fog up as he leans over the pots on the stove, he cannot, for the life of him, find the smallest bit of regret inside of him. 

“You have to try one of these before I cook them!” Gansey insists, scattering salt over a quartered tomato and holding it out to Ronan. He has his sleeve pushed up to expose a golden forearm covered in a sun-lightened fuzz of hair, his hands are slightly reddened from the cold water he used to wash the vegetables. Ronan can’t be sure if it’s all really happening or if it’s just the beginning to an incredibly realistic porno he’s currently dreaming. He takes the tomato from Gansey’s fingers, letting himself be watched as he chews and swallows. 

“This is so good,” Ronan says, “even better than the ones we grew at the Barns when I was little.” 

“You grew your own vegetables?” 

“My-” Dad? Father? The man who built my family and then tore it down himself? “- my parents did, yeah. I mostly remember the tomatoes. There was other stuff too that was less appealing to a kid my age, I guess.” 

“Have you seen my backyard?” Gansey asks, clearly excited about it. “It’s huge and I’ve been thinking I should make use of it, but I’m not a very experienced gardener so far. And it would take a lot of work to get it all cleaned up and organized. But I imagine myself sitting outside in the summer, surrounded by flowers and birds and maybe a few trees.”

“And here I was letting my brother stress me over college and a career when I could have been dreaming about retirement just like you,” Ronan laughs, but if anything, he’s jealous of Gansey and his view on life. 

As expected, the food tastes amazing. Gansey gets glassy-eyed as he cuts an onion and he makes a proper dressing for the salad, mixing vinegar and apple-juice and spices. Where the bandage around his hand was there is only a band-aid covering his palm. It doesn’t seem like any pain is stopping him from using both hands to put together the best meal Ronan has had in literal years. 

“Do you like it?” Gansey aks, sitting there with spaghetti wrapped up around his fork but waiting for Ronan’s judgment. 

“So good,” Ronan almost moans. Without the wine, he definitely would have held himself back a little more, but his reaction is sincere, so why the hell not? 

“Excellent,” Gansey smiles. “I already know what I’m making you next.” 

Next? _Next?_ That man sitting in front of him is too good for Ronan, but he’s too good for the whole world, so Ronan doesn’t take it as a reason for self-doubt. 

“Be careful. You start feeding strays, you won’t get rid of them.” 

“Maybe I don’t want to get rid of this one.” 

Ronan is pretty sure that Gansey has managed to turn his face all red once again. Thankfully, Gansey goes easy on him for the rest of their dinner. They eat and drink and talk and laugh, Gansey explicitly forbids Ronan to touch the dirty dishes. Instead, he grabs him by the hand and pulls him out of the room to start their grand tour of what used to be Monmouth Manufacturing. 

From all those years ago, Ronan remembers the brick walls and the wide, empty spaces and the dust, but not the broad, wooden stairs and the gigantic windows. The ceilings have to be about twenty-five feet high. 

On the first floor, there isn't much to see. On the second floor, there’s a room that would be ideal as a bedroom, but Gansey sleeps in the central living space instead. Ronan tries not to think about what it does to him seeing Gansey’s bed. It seems very intimate. So he focuses on a wall filled with books and clutter, a desk disappearing under a mountain of documents and notebooks and smaller cardboard boxes. 

Ronan doesn’t know what he imagined Gansey’s home to look like. Probably not the way it does. And yet, it makes perfect sense, all of it. The blank spaces and the overflowing corners, the fridge in the bathroom and the assortment of different shades and colors. Gansey lives inside a project. And actually, he isn’t a weirdo at all. He just doesn’t pretend he’s already done like everyone else. Done finding his place in the world, and done making it into what he wants it to be.

Ronan isn’t done either, but for some reason, he always believed this to be a personal shortcoming of his. 

“This place is sick,” he says, because it begs to not only be lived in, but to be changed. Not the place to leave the way you found it. 

“I haven’t showed you my favorite part yet.” 

Ronan follows Gansey down the stairs and out through a back door. “You know how I said I wanted to do something with this building?” Gansey asks. “This is where I started.” 

They’re standing on a small wooden platform, but the framework suggests that it’s supposed to become much bigger. From there, a few steps lead down into a sea of grass that is swaying in a soft wind in the half-dark. Facing away from the warehouse and the street at its front, there’s nothing as far as Ronan can see. Nothing in front of him, nothing to the left, nothing to the right. Earth and grass and some wildflowers, and the stars coming out above their heads. 

“If this was mine,” Ronan says, “I’d know what to do with it.” 

“Build a fence and buy some farm animals?” 

Ronan forgot that his secret farm fantasy isn’t all that secret anymore. Not around Gansey, anyway. 

“Not enough to make profit off or anything. Just to have them around.” 

“I like that, actually,” Gansey whispers. They’re both staring into the same direction, not looking at each other, but Ronan doesn’t know if he even could, because their shoulders are touching. He can’t be sure if it was Gansey or him who moved that close, but there’s a soft pressure, a wonderful warmth. He wants more of it. It’s just a deep breath taken in and then they’re even closer. Ronan can feel Gansey. He can feel their arms melting into another and their hands brushing together. 

Gansey nudges Ronan’s shoulder and grins at him, sitting down at the edge of the platform and patting the wood next to him as an invitation for Ronan to join him. They let their legs dangle, feet kicking the grass. 

“It’s pretty cool that you can do this,” Ronan says. “Build this. Have something that’s your own and nobody else has.” 

“It’s not difficult,” Gansey shrugs. “You just have to do it.” 

All of the little space between their bodies on the platform is now occupied by Gansey’s hand. Ronan doesn’t want to stare at it. Actually, he does, he just doesn't want Gansey to notice. 

“Do you think that’s what most people suck at?” Ronan asks. “Just doing it?” 

“I said it’s not difficult,” Gansey replies. “I think things that are not difficult can still be hard for different reasons.” 

“Like what?” 

“Like fear.” 

“What makes you not afraid, then?” Ronan wants to know. 

“What makes you think I’m not afraid?” 

Ronan gestures around. “This. Henrietta. Monmouth. Your job. A self-made back porch.” He could continue the list infinitely if he wanted to. _The bright orange of your Camaro. Driving it when you know it has a tendency to break down. Polo shirts under a blue overall. The cut in your hand. The number still not quite washed off my arm. You. This. Me. Us._

And just like that, he grabs Gansey’s hand. Touches its back with his fingers, turns it around, takes it to his lap, threads his own fingers through Gansey’s, watches as they close, golden skin against white. 

“There’s no universal answer,” Gansey says. “But at the moment, it’s going to work knowing I will be close to you. It’s those weird coffee mugs you have.” 

“My coffee mugs aren’t weird.” 

“They are. That’s what makes me not afraid. The fact that I moved across the country and took the first job I could get and went to work on my first project and saw a guy I liked and somehow got him to talk to me.” 

“You mean when I came stomping up the stairs and you were painting the ceiling and I didn’t get out more than one word?” 

Gansey chuckles and shakes his head. “No. Before. When I saw you for the first time and you disappeared into your apartment and I tried my best to work somewhere in the vicinity of your door from then on.” 

“You did not.” 

“Oh yes. I did. And yet you didn’t show up again for quite a while.” 

Ronan has to laugh out loud. “So, funny story,” he says. 

Gansey squeezes his hand and looks at him. Ronan doesn’t mind, although he has to keep his head straight forward to say what he’s about to admit. 

“I had not seen you.” 

“Oh.” 

“Oh no, don’t sound disappointed,” Ronan smiles. “I might not have seen you, but I was very much aware of you. Because I kept hearing that voice at the other side of the door.” 

“I’ve been told I talk too much.” 

“Oh dear God no. You don’t. I just… well, to be honest, I didn’t think I’d like the face as much as the voice, so I never came out to see.” 

“Oh.”

“To be fair, it’s a pretty good voice, so it was a valid assumption.” 

“That’s why you looked like a deer in the headlights that night you brought me coffee for the first time. You didn’t think you’d see me there. You didn’t plan to ever see me.” 

“For what it’s worth,” Ronan says, “I’m glad I did end up seeing you.”

“Oh yeah? So my face is not a let-down?” 

Ronan shakes his head. “Nope, definitely not.” 

“Wow. That might just be the best compliment I’ve ever gotten.” 

It’s Ronan’s turn now to squeeze Gansey’s hand. “Sorry it’s not.” 

“It is if it comes from you.” 

“Imagine if I actually knew half as good things to say as you,” Ronan murmurs. He can’t believe Gansey hasn’t pulled his hand away yet. Or told Ronan to leave.

“Ronan Lynch,” says Gansey, “you’d be the death of me.” 

They both laugh into the night until the sound fades and they’re left stupidly smiling. But at some point, Ronan has to stop looking away and into the distance. So he turns his head, and he smiles at Gansey instead of the great nightly nothingness of Monmouth’s overgrown backyard. He lets Gansey see him and what he does to Ronan. 

He also lets Gansey put his free hand to his shoulder, and his neck, and his face. He closes his eyes as Gansey’s thumb strokes across his cheek. It’s the softest and most passionate thing he’s ever experienced. It’s going to turn into a kiss, he’s pretty sure. Ronan wouldn’t have dreamed about Gansey wanting to kiss him before he came to Monmouth tonight, but he can tell from the look in Gansey’s eyes as they search his face, from the feeling of his touch, from the fact that he’s close enough now to breathe on Ronan’s cheek. 

As much as it doesn’t come as a surprise, it still shocks Ronan to the core when Gansey puts his lips where his finger was a second ago, his cheek. It’s not so much a kiss as it’s skin-on-skin contact, warm pressure, lingering touch while Gansey’s hand moves to cup Ronan’s jaw, thumb making its way from Gansey’s lips to Ronan’s. 

Gansey’s mouth follows. Ronan shakes and trembles as he presses it halfway between where the first kiss came and where Ronan really wants it. Gansey’s finger moves ahead, tracing the curve of Ronan’s lip. His mouth follows behind, stopping at the corner of Ronan’s mouth this time, impossibly close, leaving another half-kiss before Gansey pulls his finger away and Ronan’s lips are free. Ronan turns his head just a little, he can’t wait any longer. 

It’s not a half-anything then. It’s a proper kiss. It’s Gansey’s lips and Ronan’s lips and gentle pressure and a quiet little sigh coming from Ronan. It’s a moment of waiting and relishing in the reality of it happening, thinking _finally,_ thinking _thankfully,_ thinking _more, more, more._

After that moment, Ronan puts his hand to Gansey’s chest, grabbing him by the collar of the pastel colored polo of the day, pulling him closer. They take a breath before they kiss again, and again, and too many more times for Ronan to keep count.

  
  


*

Dreams are curious worlds to Ronan. As many difficulties he has finding sleep, it seems even harder to escape those worlds again. When Ronan isn’t physically awake, he’s awake in a different way, always on his way somewhere, always running, chasing, desperately trying to learn languages to speak in and find faces on the people he meets, creating, destroying, growing more and more exhausted the longer it takes until he can drag himself back to the surface of a deep and dark sea, to consciousness, to the safety and unsafety of reality. 

Ronan can’t remember the time before the dreams. He knows they must have existed, sometime when he was still a child and his parents would have been highly alert by any nightly screams or dry blood sticking to his skin in the morning. But the days when sleep still meant peace have been over for so long that it’s hard to recall the shift, and to Ronan, _remembering_ seems awfully close to torture. 

Really, what is a lot more curious even than Ronan’s dreams is their absence. It’s like he’s waiting, waiting, waiting, because there has to be something. Something out there to get him that he’s long stopped running from, so he stays put and waits longer, longer, longer until he forgets that he’s waiting, and the something can’t find him if he’s forgotten, because the something is himself. Nothing happens. 

There is no fight and no sound, no smell of gasoline this time. The darkness he finds himself in is a normal kind, not the blackened one he’s grown so used to, and his hands are free, not in shackles, not covered in blood. He feels no pain, and he feels no fear, so he reaches deeper inside him because they have to be in there somewhere, but there’s nothing, nothing, nothing. 

Only a touch against the back of his head. It’s too warm and it’s too soft and it doesn’t make sense, but the pressure is just right and the rhythm of the movement is just right and Ronan likes it, likes the way the thing rubs at the back of his head and makes tension leave his body until he feels boneless, but it doesn’t stop where it makes him heavy and helpless, it just goes on, light strokes up and down, again and again. 

Before the touches can stop, or leave him, like everything good always leaves him, Ronan moves, pressing his head back against a hand, against fingers that bend to match the curve of his skull. Their movements change directions. If Ronan were a cat, he’d start purring. Because he’s human, or something close to it, he nuzzles against his pillow instead, finding that it consists of a thin layer of fabric, of skin and flesh and bones underneath. And that it smells fantastic, so much so that he wants to press his whole face against it and never breathe different air again. 

The pillow twitches a little at Ronan’s attempt to disappear inside it, so he grabs it with his hand. It’s partially soft and partially hard, flesh and bone, muscle and warmth, life. 

_Life,_ Ronan thinks and immediately hears a voice in his head. He smiles a smile he’s too tired to fight off. 

_“Hey there.”_

It’s become Ronan’s favorite sound in the whole world, even better than the roar of the engine of his car or the crack of a bone. He likes it more because it doesn’t get him worked up in quite the same way, because maybe it’s the opposite, maybe it’s the one thing that doesn’t need to be hard and loud and sharp and dangerous. 

“Hey,” he whispers back, slowly forcing his eyes to open. 

There’s light. So much light. Enormous windows are built into Monmouth and Gansey has made no attempt to keep the sun outside with curtains or anything of the sort. In the brightness, Ronan tilts his head and searches for Gansey’s eyes, needing a moment, feeling no fear despite being lost. 

Gansey is beautiful. He thought so the first time he saw him in the hallway of his building. After all, Ronan was shocked enough by the sight of him to jump out of the window of his apartment. But this Gansey, this bare-legged, messy-haired, glasses-less Gansey? He’s something else entirely. He’s made of the same shapes and colors, but he’s all new. He’s not a stranger. 

“How long have you been awake?” Ronan wants to know, because Gansey is sitting up and leaned against the headboard, a book resting beside him on the mattress, his hand touching Ronan’s hand like he chose to let it do that. On the other hand, he isn’t any more dressed than Ronan is, boxer shorts and t-shirt, and if he planned on reading, his glasses would need to sit on his nose instead of the nightstand. 

“Not sure,” Gansey says softly, seemingly amused by the question. “I didn’t want to wake you. You were sleeping so soundly.” 

“Like a fucking baby,” Ronan grins, but on the inside, it sends something spinning. Ronan isn’t a baby anymore, and the grown up version of him doesn’t get to rest, doesn’t know what _safe and sound_ feels like. At least he thought so. It has been that way for so many years that he was so certain. But he isn’t lying to Gansey now. He was sleeping like a godforsaken, unknowing, innocent baby, not a single worry on his mind. 

“I’m glad to hear it,” Gansey says, looking down at his face in a manner so gentle that Ronan thinks he’s going to pass out, a single finger coming to stroke Ronan’s cheek, the touch so tender that he can barely stand it, taking him right back to the previous night, when Gansey’s hands were on his neck, his face, followed soon after by Gansey’s lips, those soft, wonderful lips of his that Ronan now knows can forms things even more magical than words. 

“You kissed me,” Ronan blurts out. It makes him sound silly, but he can’t help it. It’s too insane, the whole thing. The whole story where a construction worker shows up inside his building and turns his whole world upside down. Especially the part where Gansey wants him back. 

“I did. And you kissed me too.” 

“Why did you do that, Gansey?” 

Ronan doesn’t mean to sound so stupid. He doesn’t mean to be so direct, either. He knows it’s not the kind of question you’re supposed to ask someone after they kiss you, and especially not after you spent the night in their bed. He’s a wreck, more so momentarily than in general. 

Every single person who’s kissed Ronan before wanted the same thing from him. Sex. And every person Ronan has kissed in his life, he’s wanted the same from them. 

All of a sudden he’s feeling shaky. 

Gansey can’t be one of those guys. It has to be different. It has to be. 

“I wanted to,” Gansey says. “I’d wanted to for a while, but I was afraid.” 

“Afraid of what?” 

“You not wanting the same.” 

Ronan doesn’t know what to say to that. Him? Not wanting Gansey to kiss him? Not wanting to kiss Gansey back? Unwilling to have Gansey crack him open and take from him whatever the fuck he pleases? Not fucking likely. 

Because Ronan can’t speak in words remotely as well as Gansey can, he pulls himself up and kisses Gansey again before he’s even sure where to put his hands or legs or any other part of him except his mouth. Of course, naturally, Gansey pulls him where he needs to be with gentle hands until he has his arms wrapped around Gansey’s neck and his knees at either side of Gansey’s body, his chest heaving against Gansey’s chest and aching as it sinks with every exhale. How is it possible that he can be literally in Gansey’s lap and attached to his mouth and yet feel like he isn’t close enough? 

It’s everything. And _everything,_ as it turns out, contains a whole lot of things Ronan wasn’t aware he wanted or needed. Like Gansey wrapping his arms around Ronan’s waist and pulling him so close that they have to break the kiss for the sake of a minute-long hug. Like being kissed on the cheeks and the backs of his hands or like burying his fingers in Gansey’s hair and tugging at it or like stopping the kisses because he’s smiling, Gansey’s smiling, they’re both smiling. 

_You’re special,_ he wants to say, so he pulls back and looks Gansey in the eyes for as long as he can take it before going for another kiss. _You make me feel safe,_ he wants to say, so he bares his throat when Gansey begins kissing his neck and doesn’t stop tiny, breathy moans from escaping his lips as Gansey’s lips and teeth and tongue move from his earlobe down to his collarbone at the one side first and then the other. _I’m not afraid,_ he wants to say, so he lets his own hands roam what he can reach of Gansey’s body despite the danger of it taking his breath away. 

_I want you,_ he wants to say, so he stops kissing Gansey for a moment, lets his temple rest against Gansey’s temple while his hands slips underneath Gansey’s t-shirt, fingers sliding up his back, waiting for Gansey to tell him to stop. 

“I want you too,” Gansey whispers. He can read his mind, Ronan thinks at first but really, Gansey can read his body, and it isn’t surprising at all. Gansey kisses the corner of Ronan’s mouth but he remains otherwise still, surrendering to Ronan, who conjures up all of his courage and pulls Gansey’s shirt over his head. 

He knew the moment would be devastating. The clothes didn’t exactly hide Gansey’s broad shoulders and his pecs, but in combination with the soft little belly and the fuzz scattered over his chest, it’s almost too much. Where Ronan is sharp, Gansey is soft, isn’t made of only bones and skin and hollows, but his body isn’t shaped to impress either, the muscles not defined but strong, forged not in a gym but during hours of real work.

“Are you okay?” Gansey jokes, and oh dear god, is he blushing?

“You look illegal,” Ronan mutters. 

“Stop it,” Gansey murmurs in response, deciding that Ronan has had enough shameless staring and pulling him into another kiss, his arms once again wrapping around Ronan’s body, except they’re doing it beneath his shirt this time. Ronan secretly thinks that something must have been wrong with the hands of every person who’s touched him before, because touch has never felt quite the same. 

He lets Gansey undress him and then look up at him with eyes glowing with awe and admiration. Their bodies can touch, then, skin against skin, their corners and edges and angles fitting together like puzzle pieces. Gansey moves his hands along Ronan’s arms and over his shoulders, down his back, up his front, across his chest, again and again and again and again. Ronan moves his hands through the hair on Gansey’s chest, following the little trail down his stomach, then abandoning his exploration when Gansey’s touches become so intense that he has to hold onto the hair on his head for a moment. 

Gansey kisses him everywhere he can reach, traces the claws and feathers of ink that are hooked over Ronan’s shoulders with his fingertips, breathes into the crook of his neck, pulls him closer, always closer, rubs his palms over Ronan’s thighs, makes him want to spread his legs further apart, grabs him by the hips when Ronan grinds down against him, hands urging him to do it again. Ronan complies and they both breathe heavily into each other’s mouth as their annoyingly still clothed cocks rub together. It seems like Gansey is just as hard as Ronan. 

It’s like this realization makes Ronan go wild. It was not exactly easy but manageable to ignore his aching boner up until the point where Gansey touched it, be it through two layers of underwear. All of a sudden, Ronan feels desperate, starting to rock his hips back and forth, the movements soon becoming smaller and quicker, Gansey’s cock caught against his pubic bone and his own rubbing against Gansey’s stomach. He can’t stop, it feels too good. 

“Ronan,” Gansey whispers in between kisses, “Ronan, Ronan.” 

Ronan looks at a pink-cheeked Gansey with half-shut eyes and a half-open mouth. It might just be the best thing he’s ever seen. 

“Ronan,” Gansey says again, but he sounds so wrecked that Ronan isn’t sure he actually has something to say other than a breathless version of his name. The words make it out eventually. “Do you want to get off? Or do you…” 

Ronan stops. “Do I what?” 

Again, it seems like Gansey is blushing, but Ronan can’t even really tell anymore. “Well… you know…” Ronan doesn’t know. Ronan has not the faintest clue. But he’s very much listening. “Take it slow,” Gansey says. “Let me take care of you properly.” Now he definitely does look flushed. 

Ronan doesn’t exactly know how to respond to a guy who isn’t trying to get inside his pants as quickly as possible. “Uuuuuuhhhhhhnnnngggggg.” Yes, excellent reply, Ronan. Congratulations. 

“I’ll admit I’m a little out of practice,” Gansey smiles, “but I didn’t just invite you here because I needed to get laid. Your decision. You can have it quick and easy, if that’s what you want. But you can have anything else you want from me as well.” 

Gansey seriously needs to stop saying things that give Ronan’s heart a boner. It’s just not fair. Also, what does _anything_ even mean? A house and a ring and adopted children? Ronan might be a little high on endorphins at the moment, but if it wasn’t Gansey underneath him he wouldn’t even think of sleeping in the same bed as another person, and he’s well beyond that. 

“Okay,” Gansey nods and smiles, bringing one arm behind Ronan and using the other one to push himself up. 

“I didn’t even say anything,” Ronan laughs as he’s being lowered onto his back, Gansey’s weight now settling down on top of him, which feels nicer than he would have thought. 

“You don’t have to,” Gansey says and begins kissing him in earnest again, rolling his hips against Ronan. With one hand he holds himself up and with the other he strokes along Ronan’s bent leg, fingers spread wide across his thigh and pushing underneath his boxer shorts. “Allow me to take these off of you.” 

“Do it.” Ronan can’t believe he hasn’t ripped them to shreds himself yet, but of course, Gansey doesn’t let himself be ruled by his impatience. Instead, he sits back and kisses the inside of Ronan’s knee, a spot where Ronan didn’t think a kiss would do anything to him, but it does. Gansey moves his hands down along the insides of his thighs before he pulls at his underwear, finally freeing Ronan’s cock. For some reason, the touch of his hands on Ronan’s thighs makes it easier to be looked at while being so completely exposed, but Gansey is only just getting started making him feel worshipped. 

“Have I told you that you’re beautiful?” He asks. It’s that voice of his except with a hint of something raw that only comes out on specific occasions. Ronan made a mental note a while ago to find out what the determiner for those occasions might be. Now he’s ecstatic enough to believe it could be him. 

“Shut up,” Ronan says, because nobody has ever said anything along those lines to him and in spite of not being used to it at all, he’s obsessed with the sound of the words coming from Gansey’s mouth and overwhelmed by the feelings they give him. 

“No,” Gansey says decidedly, crawling back over him and pinning Ronan’s arms down above his head. “I will not shut up about this. You’re beautiful.” The tone in his voice makes clear how badly he wants Ronan to believe him, but what lets Ronan know that the words are true is nothing that can be said out loud. The assurance lies in every gentle kiss pressed to his skin and in every touch. 

Gansey takes his time mapping him out with fingertips and palms and lips and tongue, tracing and retracing every part of his body. It’s the sucking on the side of his neck that makes Ronan take his arms down from where Gansey put them to get a hold of Gansey’s hair. It’s the flicking of his nipples that has him mewling softly. It’s the careful scraping of Gansey’s teeth over his hip bones that makes him arch his back off the mattress. But what truly kills him, what truly ruins him, takes him apart, is the sheer amount of little things Gansey does that aren’t meant to turn him on, like when Gansey draws an invisible circle around the mole left to his belly button or when he stops until Ronan looks into his eyes just to smile at him. 

Ronan doesn’t know how much time passes or if time even still passes at all. All that he knows is the taste of Gansey’s mouth and the shape of his body between his legs. He doesn’t think he could be any more turned on by the time Gansey gently bites his earlobe and tells him to turn over. 

“I’ve been wanting to get a proper look at this,” Gansey says once Ronan has settled on his stomach in a way that makes the hardness of his cock bearable, fingers tracing the lines that the large black tattoo on Ronan’s back is made of. “It truly is a piece of art.” 

The tattoo was an act of rebellion the moment Ronan first set foot into his artist’s shop, but hours upon hours of work have been poured into it. He’s gone back to get it extended twice. It was supposed to be a shield, but to anyone who knows how to look at it, it’s the opposite, revealing his inner self rather than hiding it. Not even Noah or Blue have ever been allowed to look at it too closely for too long. Ronan doesn’t dream of denying Gansey all the looks he wants to take. 

He closes his eyes and rests his head on his hands, relaxing while Gansey rubs his neck and shoulders, taking all the tension out of him just to build it back up by kissing a trail down his spine, eventually digging his teeth into the flesh of Ronan’s ass. Ronan doesn’t necessarily make the decision to lift his hips up and stick his ass out as if to offer himself, but it happens anyway. 

Thankfully, Gansey understands the invitation. Ronan has become so desperate to be touched there that he almost moans out loud when Gansey grips his ass with both hands. As much as he’s been enjoying the tenderness and Gansey’s general consideration for his needs and feelings, Ronan is hard and a little wet at the tip and more than ready for Gansey to stop teasing him. 

So when blunt nails dig into his skin and Gansey spreads him apart, Ronan doesn’t bother pretending like he isn’t loving it. He opens his legs as far as he can and arches his back, hoping that Gansey will do something about it. 

“I’m not going to do anything without your consent,” Gansey says, leans over him and kisses his cheek. 

“Gansey,” Ronan practically whimpers, hoping that he isn’t going to make him actually spell it all out. 

“I’ve got you,” Gansey says, “just a second.” And then he’s gone. And then he’s back again with his thighs over Ronan’s thighs and his hands at Ronan’s back and his mouth at the back of Ronan’s neck and his scent in the air and that weird feeling in Ronan’s heart and-

“Do you want me to touch you, Ronan?” 

“Yes,” he says without having to think about it. 

Gansey’s hand moves up the inside of Ronan’s thigh and stops just short of where he wants it. 

“Yes,” he says again. He wants, he wants, he _wants._

Amazingly, Gansey gives him what he wants. At first, it’s just a finger teasing him, no pressure, not enough impact until he’s squirming. After that, there’s a lot of lube being poured onto Gansey’s fingers and everything from Ronan’s balls to his entrance is being slicked up, which seems unnecessary and wasteful, but it actually feels nice and then really awesome. Ronan wants to rub his face into the sheets. 

It occurs to him that this is a first, the first time someone has put their fingers to the most intimate spot on his body not to prepare him to be fucked, not to be able to take something from him, but to _give_ , to give tenderness and patience and thoroughness and care for a long time until he’s truly relaxed, and then pleasure that has him struggling to keep still and quiet. 

It feels too good. The bed smells like Gansey and Ronan is being pressed down into it, his body slowly falling apart around Gansey’s skilled fingers. Once he stops suppressing the little sounds that want out of him, Gansey lays down on top of him with one hand between their bodies and his face pressed against Ronan’s neck, mouth open. Ronan is taller than Gansey, if not by much, but Gansey weighs more, and yet Ronan loves having him on top, all his soft curves filling the hollows life has left on Ronan. 

Too late, he realizes that Gansey is about to finish him like this, with two fingers inside him, not even having touched his dick once. He kind of wants to protest, wants to drag this thing out, to be able to look into Gansey’s eyes, or kiss his lips, to feel Gansey inside him before it’s over or at least return the favor in some other way, but he can’t make words come over his lips because he doesn’t seriously want to, because it’s already heaven. 

The only way in which Ronan manages to brace himself for the impact of his impending orgasm is by twisting his neck in an uncomfortable angle and turn his face far enough for Gansey to kiss him, ending him with the softness of his lips. Ronan tries his best to kiss back as he comes, but his mouth goes slack and Gansey nibbles at his parted lips instead until it’s all over and their main focus shifts to breathing. 

“Fuck,” Ronan whispers. Usually, he simply likes to swear, but in this case, he genuinely doesn’t believe he knows better words to react with. 

*

“And I thought you’d legitimately managed to end your life in a car crash this time.” 

Ronan sighs loudly. This is what he gets for letting his guard down. For once in his adult life, he’s letting himself feel happy, expecting no evil as he returns to his apartment after spending a whole night and a whole day in a Gansey-bubble, and of course his carelessness is punished immediately. Happiness is a treacherous thing. 

Ronan doesn’t bother asking his older brother what he wants, they both know it. He couldn’t care less, but his lack of personal investment in Declan’s ridiculous expectations of and disappointment in him won’t save him now. 

“I’m not going to bore you with a lecture,” Declan says, which earns him unexpected credit. “You have until the end of the month to be out of here.” 

“What?” 

“ _What?,”_ Declan repeats, clearly surprised by Ronan’s surprise. “What’s so hard to understand? You’re not a child anymore, Ronan. It’s not my job to make sure you get a seven hundredth chance after you’ve more than proved how little you care. You knew our deal. Pass this one exam and stay in college. You didn’t even try. What if I’m done trying with you?”

Now there’s something Ronan has been waiting for for literal years. And yet, reality hits a little different. 

“No college, no apartment,” Declan says firmly, although Ronan can tell that he’s not feeling in charge. “Don’t try to sneak into the Barns, Ronan, it won’t work.”

In fact, Ronan already knows that. The home they grew up in is not to be entered by any of the Lynch brothers, it says so in their father’s will. Ronan has tried many times, but there’s a rather sophisticated alarm system in place and being dragged away by police officers hurts more when it’s about the Barns. 

“Where am I going, then?” Ronan asks dumbly. 

“You be the adult, Ronan,” Declan tells him as he steps away from the door and into the hallway, ready to leave Ronan. “You figure it out.” 

Stupidly, shamefully, desperately, a part of Ronan really did expect his big brother to have a solution for him. A place to go, someplace incredibly dull and boring that Ronan would hate, but instead he gets nothing this time, which is new and unfamiliar and… 

He doesn’t know. He honestly doesn’t know. 

*

“No lecture, are you serious?” Noah asks. He seems as incredulous as Ronan was the day before, but unlike Ronan, his life isn’t affected by Declan’s sudden decision to give up on his brother. 

Ronan shakes his head and downs half his beer at once. 

“Is he sick or something?” Blue murmurs. 

“Sick of me, I guess,” Ronan says. For so many years, he’s wondered how much it would take. 

“What’s the plan, then?” Blue wants to know. If it was her problem, she’d have one. She’d have several, probably. A mess of different but equally chaotic plans to go through until something miraculously works out for her. 

Again, Ronan shakes his head. He isn’t like her. “No plan,” he says. “Might just pack up my car and hit the road. See where it takes me.” 

“Don’t be silly,” Noah argues, “you can’t leave Henrietta.” 

Ronan raises his eyebrows at him. Yes, he’s spent all of his life there. Born and raised. Delusioned and abandoned. Why not leave? Why not get as far away as he can? 

“Because _we’re_ here, obviously,” Noah replies, rolling his eyes. _Obviously._ “And Matthew. I mean, you wouldn’t go anywhere that’s too far away to go to church with Matthew on Sundays. And what about Prince Charming? Don’t think this makes us forget to force every detail of your big date night out of you.” 

Ronan rolls his eyes. “I’ve known him for what, a couple of days?”

“Only if we’re not counting all those weeks you spent obsessing over his sexy voice,” Blue points out. 

“Which we’re not, because that’s not _knowing_ someone, okay? For the record, it was very nice. The date, I mean. He’s very nice.” 

“For the record,” Noah interrupts him, “we can tell that it was more than ‘nice’ from the way you’re blushing right now.” 

“Fuck off,” Ronan mutters. “But what does it matter anyway? I think we all know that a guy like him won’t be interested in someone like me for very long. Hell, maybe he’s just looking for someone to piss off his fancy politician parents.”

“Are we sure that’s something we _all_ know, Ronan?” Blue asks, looking at him with that expression she gets when she’s ready to make a point. “He gave you his number. He came to you when he hurt himself. He asked you on a date.”

“He totally kissed you,” Noah adds. “I can tell. I see it in your face. Don’t lie to us.” 

Ronan hates them both. “Fine,” he sighs, “he did. So?” He figures admitting it is the best strategy to at least avoid for them to find out what else Gansey did to him. 

“So?!” Blue repeats. She sounds shocked, like Ronan should know better than to ask. Like whatever she’s thinking should be obvious. She believes it is, Ronan knows her well enough to understand that. Her voice goes quiet when she continues. “What exactly makes it so hard to imagine him genuinely liking you?” 

And that right there, well, that’s the million dollar question, isn’t it? Why does Ronan automatically assume that the pretty, smart, kind guy he’s been getting to know isn’t his happy ending? 

“Maybe I just don’t believe in happy endings,” he says. And why would he? He’s fucked up college. What’s left of his family is nothing but weekly lunches after church where Matthew constantly has to remind his brothers to be civil. The Barns are lost, forbidden. Blue and Noah are growing up, moving on, going places. Because they’re not stupid enough to get stuck. Because they’re not like him. 

He shouldn't have said it. Blue is already preparing for one of her speeches. Whatever she’s about to say, he knows she’s right. She always is. His arguments are never good enough with her. And yet, her faith in him, Noah’s faith in him, they won’t save Ronan. They can’t. 

Blue doesn’t get to speak. She’s about to start when they all hear a knock on the door. Soft, Ronan thinks. He knows it’s Gansey. Gansey, who has no business in the building on a Sunday afternoon. Poor Gansey, not realizing how much better off he’d be if he stayed away from Ronan. 

When he opens the door, he almost forgets for a second. Forgets everything. From his imminent homelessness to the fact that his friends are still sitting on his bed. There’s Gansey in a light pink polo shirt and with two cups of coffee in his hands. Gansey with his glasses half an inch too far down his nose and that stupidly beautiful smile on his face. 

“Um, hey,” Ronan says, waving Gansey inside, hurriedly pointing out that his friends are around as to avoid the awkwardness of Blue and Noah witnessing a kiss between them. 

“I’m sorry,” Gansey says, “I should have called to see if you’re free. I don’t want to intrude.” 

Ronan doesn’t answer fast enough, so Noah does it for him. “We kind of want you to intrude. Come on in.” 

Gansey looks at Ronan, silently asking whether he’s welcome or not. Ronan nods, of course he does, how could he tell Gansey to leave? “Come on in,” he whispers, closing the door behind Gansey. 

What happens then is strangely fascinating. First, Gansey is so much better at behaving like a normal human being than Ronan. He actually introduces himself to Blue and Noah, shaking their hands and making small talk, immediately getting them to like him. The guy has to have some secret super-power, Ronan is sure of it. It’s totally not his fault that he fell for Gansey. 

Second, the shitty little apartment becomes shittier and smaller with Gansey standing inside it. It looks adequate with Ronan lounging on the bed and dirty dishes covering every surface. But it’s too dull and too cramped all of a sudden. None of the people currently inside it belong there. 

Ronan can’t help but stare at Gansey inside what will be Ronan’s space for a couple more days. Until Noah’s words snap him out of it, that is. 

“You have great timing, actually,” he says to Gansey, who’s given his coffee to Blue. “We were just convincing Ronan not to leave Henrietta.” 

Ronan gives Noah a look that says, _Really? Was that necessary?_

Noah gives Ronan a look that says, _Yes, really._

“I didn’t know you were thinking about leaving,” Gansey says. He sounds further away than he should considering that he’s standing right next to Ronan. Like the thing Ronan likes so much about his voice is somehow muffled. It breaks his heart a little. 

“I’m-” Ronan doesn’t know how to explain. He doesn’t want to explain at all. He doesn’t want this to be the moment when it’s all over. The moment when Gansey realizes how fundamentally screwed up Ronan is. It was bound to happen, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. 

“I don’t know,” he sighs. “I have to be out of here by the end of the month, that’s all I know so far.” 

“Oh,” says Gansey. “I assume living with your brothers is not an option.” 

Both Blue and Noah begin laughing and then shake their heads. “No,” Noah says and Blue adds, “none of us are very keen on finding out whether Ronan or Declan would be the first one to commit actual murder.” 

Gansey nods, looking so serious that it pains Ronan. 

“I’ll figure it out,” he says, even trying to smile at Gansey. “I still have a couple of days left. I’m not going to end up on the street, no worries.” In his car is much more likely, but Ronan isn’t quite ready for Gansey to know exactly how dire the situation is. 

“Okay,” Gansey nods, trying his best to look like he believes Ronan. Because Gansey is Gansey, he has the mercy to change the topic. “So, what were you guys planning on doing tonight? Because I was thinking about a movie and pizza. I’ve heard Nino’s has the best in town, but I’ve never been there. I was going to see if Ronan wants to come with but why not all of you? Unless you’re busy, of course.” 

Noah leans back and smiles. “Ronan,” he says, “I like this man. Keep him.” 

“No offense,” Blue says to Gansey, “but you don’t look like someone who’s heard of Nino’s.” 

“Um, thank you?” 

“You’re welcome. And you’re right, they do serve the best pizza in town. Although you won’t believe it when you walk in there. It’s more a hidden treasure kind of deal.” 

“I happen to believe only the most precious treasures are well hidden,” Gansey grins. 

“You know what? That sounds like a great plan,” Noah replies, “and we’re definitely in. But I’m afraid Blue and I have to go take care of a thing first. Very, extremely important.” He gets up and pulls a confused looking Blue with him towards the door. “Should we meet at Nino’s at seven? Awesome. See you later.” 

The door opens, Blue waves, the door closes. And like that, they’re alone. 

“He really didn’t put much effort in that excuse, did he?” Gansey points out, amusement twinkling in his eyes. 

“None. But that’s Noah for you. They’re both the worst. I love them. Don’t tell them I said that though.” 

“Of course not,” Gansey promises. There’s a moment of silence followed by Gansey’s hand reaching out for him, waiting for Ronan to take it. Ronan is glad, almost relieved, that they can go back to speaking with their bodies now that they’re alone. 

He lets Gansey pull him into a hug and whispers “Hi.” against his neck. 

“Hi,” Gansey whispers back. _Welcome home, Ronan._

Somehow they get from there on top of Ronan’s bed, Ronan’s head on Gansey’s chest, arms wrapped around him. Gansey’s proximity, the warmth of his body, the sound of his beating heart, his minty breath - everything, _everything_ about him anchors Ronan immediately, offers him calmness and peace. But whatever was left from the euphoria of their date night is gone. The moment tastes bitter-sweet. 

“It’s probably not my place to say,” Gansey whispers, “but if you left Henrietta, I would miss you.” 

Ronan turns his head, face pressed against Gansey’s shirt until it’s getting hard to breathe. “I never said I want to go. I wouldn’t even know where. It’s just-” Well, what is it, Ronan? He sighs deeply.

“You’re not in trouble, are you?” Gansey asks. “You’re going to be fine, yes?” 

Ronan shouldn’t be thinking about the answer to that question. He shouldn’t have to. 

“It’s just, well, _not_ fucking college, you know? And I don’t know what else there is.”

“Whatever you want,” says Gansey, his hand stroking the back of Ronan’s head. And that, _that’s_ the kind of thing that sounds awesome when you say it. _Whatever you want._ Like exactly the kind of thing Ronan wants in life. But the pragmatics of it are a lot more difficult. Because no, you can’t have everything, and even if you could, you would waste your time trying to decide which part of _‘everything’_ you care most about. 

Ronan doesn’t say anything, because that’s the only thing he truly wants at the moment. Not having to answer questions. Not having to make decisions. Not having to change. Just lying there between Gansey’s arm and his body, one leg folded around him. 

“You know,” Gansey says eventually, “I happen to have a whole building. It’s quite empty as of right now. But I’ve always imagined it being less empty. Less lonely.” 

“What are you suggesting?” Ronan asks, although he’s quite well aware of what Gansey is suggesting, it’s just hard to believe. It’s not fair. Because Gansey has only known him for a couple of days and doesn’t know what he’s asking for. It’s not his fault, the past week has been extraordinarily beautiful, but he doesn’t _know._

“It doesn’t have to be like _that._ It can be just… cohabitation.” 

“You’re aware that the guy who’s lived with me for almost nineteen years wants to murder me, yeah?” 

“You can hardly compare me to your brother, don’t you think.” And that, yeah, Ronan thinks Gansey has a point there. 

“I’m not a good roommate, Gansey,” he says, but what he means is, _I’m an asshole. I don’t know how to keep even just one single room clean and tidy. I don’t cook, I don’t have anything edible in my fridge. I’m loud, especially during the night when my insomniac self tortures itself. I get panic attacks trying to shower. I break things, and I don’t know how to fix them. I have secrets from the world, and I have secrets from myself. I’m a loser. I lose what I care about and I don’t care enough about the things that stay._

“I’ll get you a chicken,” Gansey says. He either doesn’t understand that Ronan is trying to save him the mess that would undoubtedly ensue, or he ignores it. “I can build a henhouse in the backyard, probably.” 

_No, Gansey, you don’t know, you don’t know, you don’t know._

Ronan pushes himself up, takes Gansey’s face in both hands and kisses him. He says _thank you, for offering_ and _sorry, for not being good enough to take you up on it._ Again and again and again, he kisses Gansey’s lips so they will give up their attempt to convince him of an impossibility. He grabs Gansey by the neck and pushes his hand under the dumb polo shirt and he says _thank you, thank you, thank you_ with the tips of his fingers and the flat of his palm, with some pressure of his lips and his tongue. 

He keeps Gansey’s mouth occupied so it won’t try to tempt him, and then he discovers that he can derail Gansey’s thoughts with his mouth at his throat and one hand slowly pushing down inside his pants. 

“I want to touch you,” he mutters. And Gansey lets him. Lets him push his shirt up and his pants down, lifts his hips to help get rid of them, holds on to Ronan’s shoulders as Ronan wraps his fingers around him, stroking up and down until he’s positive Gansey has forgotten their conversation, and then more, faster, harder, until Gansey has most likely also forgotten all the rest of the world, until his toes curl and his thighs quiver. Ronan bends down and takes him in his mouth, hand still moving up and down his shaft. He licks, he sucks, holds still, swallows. 

And prays that Gansey won’t forget him if they part ways. 

*

As far as sleeping accommodations go, a car is generally a pretty shitty option. Ronan’s BMW in particular is even worse. The trunk and backseat fit all of his possessions, but only because he violently punched them inside until he managed to shut the doors and trashed everything that didn’t make it, except a painfully ugly lamp that Blue salvaged for herself. 

Ronan didn’t mind folding himself into a blanket-covered bundle in the passenger seat, but he does mind not being able to unfold his long, aching limbs after hours and hours of not finding sleep. Neither afraid of the dark nor the easy access to everything he owns, his life included, nor his own dreams, something is still gnawing at Ronan. 

He thinks about Matthew, who’s never had trouble falling asleep seconds after closing his eyes, protected. He thinks about Noah, who tends to drift away in front of the tv or his laptop or with his phone in hand because he always overestimates his ability to stay awake, because he’s never ready for a day to end. He thinks about Blue, about the thousand pillows on her bed and the thousand women in her house, a house that is never quiet and yet always peaceful. 

He thinks about large windows and brick walls, about the smell of paper and mint, about the sound of a voice. He remembers the morning not so long ago when he woke up to a new reality after having spent his sleep in a new kind of dream world. The touch of a hand at the back of his head, a living body under him. 

Maybe, just maybe, sleeping isn’t the issue. Maybe waking up lonely is. 

Ronan throws the blanket to the rest of his personal chaos in the back of the BMW and climbs into the driver’s seat. He fishes the keys out of his pocket and starts the engine, puts the car into first gear and hits the gas. He can’t stand being in a car that isn’t moving. 

So he moves it. 

Although the night is cold, he drives with open windows through the darkness, up and down empty streets like he’s done countless times before, hitting the gas until it scares him and then a second longer, letting go, flying, waiting until he’s slowed down. 

He drives to the Barns, his childhood home, to Aglionby Academy, his former school, to the parking lot someone dumped Nino’s in, but he never stops at any of his destinations, never gets out, never even really looks at anything. He just keeps driving until his tank gets dangerously close to empty and the sun sends its first harbingers into the darkness. 

It doesn’t matter where he goes, he then thinks. The sun rises another day. The earth keeps spinning, and it always will, whether he leaves, whether he stays, whether he crashes the BMW and dies. It never stops. It never stops. 

It never fucking stops. 

For the first time since driving school, Ronan steps on the brake properly. Emergency braking. He remembers the lesson. Left foot, clutch. Right foot, brake. Hands, steering wheel. Eyes, ahead. Body, stiffened. Ass, off the seat. 

It’s not an emergency. The screeching sound is almost deafening. But Ronan can’t keep just slowing down and waiting to hit the gas again. 

He turns around. And then he drives away from the stink of burned rubber, drives where he’s wanted to go all along.

Monmouth.

Gansey. 

Monmouth, where the lights are either still or already on. Monmouth, where the back door is open and a bunch of tools lie strewn across the half-finished back porch. Monmouth, where the fridge is in the kitchen and the bed in the living room and everything, _everything_ makes sense. 

Gansey, who seems surprised and not surprised at the same time. Gansey, who looks tired and wide awake. Gansey, in pajama pants and a t-shirt, without glasses, holding a glass of orange juice in hand, holding in out to Ronan as if he’s only been waiting for him to finally get there for breakfast. 

Ronan takes it, empties it at once. How could he not have noticed how thirsty he was? 

They hug. Gansey takes him in his arms and holds him like he means it, breathing against his neck for a few seconds before he whispers, “Hi.” in his ear. _Welcome home, Ronan._

“Hi,” Ronan whispers back. “Couldn’t sleep either?” 

Gansey laughs and shakes his head. “Been busy. I’ve buried myself in research. It’s quite fascinating, actually. If you come upstairs with me I’ll show you.”

Ronan lets Gansey take his hand and happily follows him up the stairs. “What are you working on?” He asks. 

At the top of the staircase, Gansey stops and turns around to look at him. The smile on his face is to die for. The twinkle in his eyes might be the single most beautiful thing Ronan has ever seen. 

“What do you know about Welsh kings, Ronan?” 

* 

_4 months later..._

Ronan used to be a late-at-night kind of person. Now, he gets up with the first rays of sunlight, which was early all the way through winter and is _fucking early_ shortly after summer has begun. He doesn’t mind. He still finds himself tossing and turning sometimes, but when he does, he’s never restless on his own. More often than not these days, he actually sleeps through the night. 

Because sleep or no sleep, Ronan is still Ronan, and chaos could be his middle name if that wasn’t already Niall, he tumbles out of bed, grabs the first pair of pants he can find to put them on, whether they’re clean or not, his own or not, he doesn’t care, at least not until he steps outside and the pants start falling from his narrow hips. He owns several oversized hoodies now, all of which Gansey bought for him specifically for his early morning feeding-round. The sleeves are too long and the colors too bright for him to ever dare wear them anywhere outside of Monmouth, but he loves them, especially because Gansey lets Ronan make him wear them sometimes. That way, he can bury his nose in the front the next day and inhale his favorite scent in the world. 

While the rest of Henrietta is fast asleep, the chickens are noisily demanding breakfast as soon as they spot him. He feeds them and leaves the coop open. Since he’s finally installed an escape-proof fence around the property, all the animals get to wander around as they please during the day, the chickens just as well as the bunch of goats and Ronan’s new cow. The only ones kept safely inside the house for now are four tiny kittens that Gansey feeds milk from a bottle daily. 

When every creature is fed and every goat neck sufficiently scratched, Ronan cleans out the shed he helped Gansey build behind the house. The smell isn’t exactly something he likes, but the physical work is, and the routine. He knows Declan will never understand why he would willingly shovel cow shit every morning, but he’s okay with that. Ronan doesn’t understand why anyone would willingly wear a tie or ever set foot in an office. But he doesn’t judge. Not anymore. Well, not as hard.

By the time the world slowly wakes, Ronan is sweaty and relaxed. Green grass, blue sky, the beginnings of his own little farm laid out in front of him - what more could a man ask for? 

“Good morning, cowboy.” 

Oh yes, right. That. Him. The voice. Home. Happiness. Gansey. 

Ronan turns around to find Gansey at the back door to the house. He’s wearing sweatpants and one of Ronan’s tank tops, showing off the little tree trunks he has for arms. No matter how sexy Ronan thinks they are, they’re not sexier than Gansey’s bed hair or the lazy smile on his lips. 

“Morning,” Ronan replies, walking over to him, kissing his lips and taking one of the coffee mugs from him, then deciding that Gansey deserves another kiss before they sit down in their chairs on the self-made back porch. 

It’s the most sacred moment. Every second spent by Gansey’s side reminds Ronan of how lucky he got, but the mornings are special. It’s before Gansey goes off to work and before anyone comes to visit. Before Ronan drives into town for groceries and other supplies, before bills come in the mail or their phones ring. Even if it feels like Ronan gets to be an adult on his own terms now, he still isn’t a fan of being an adult in general. In the mornings, just for a short while, he doesn’t have to be. They don’t have to be anything, except Gansey and Ronan. 

“You look beautiful today,” Gansey says with the telling smile of a boyfriend who woke up all alone. 

Ronan grins and sets down his empty mug. “I don’t _smell_ beautiful.” 

“Sounds like you could use a shower, then,” Gansey replies, hand reaching out for Ronan’s arms. “Sounds like you could use an extra pair of hands to help clean you up.” 

Sometimes, Ronan can’t stand not kissing Gansey. Sometimes, he looks at the guy, takes inventory of every familiar inch and gets lost in the thought of how _goddamn lucky_ he got. Because when you think about it, it’s a miracle. Out of all the people in the world. Out of all the people, it’s Ronan who gets to be in this very moment with Gansey. 

“Do you really want to get me clean?” He asks, getting up, pulling the hoodie over his head and tossing it away. “Or do you want to get dirty with me?” 

“Keep looking at me like that and you’ll find out.” 

Ronan will never understand what he sees. Because in the mirror, it doesn’t exist. In the mirror, there’s only skin so white that it’s practically see-through. There’s sharp bones poking through it and from April to October, a sunburn. But in Gansey’s eyes, there has to exist something else too, Ronan can tell when he looks at him. 

Whether he himself knows what it is or what it looks like, it’s enough. It’s enough for him to stand in front of Gansey without a shirt on, without shame. To put his hands on Gansey’s knees and slide them up his thighs as he leans forward. To kiss his lips and then pull back just when Gansey really gets into kissing him back, making him chase Ronan’s lips, pushing him back into the chair with one hand on his chest. 

“Why so impatient?” Ronan teases, putting his hands to his own body, starting at his neck, sliding them down over his chest and to his hips, watching as Gansey’s hungry eyes follow his motion. 

“Because not only do you look beautiful this morning, but also _sexy.”_

Ronan has to giggle every time he hears Gansey say it. He knows that it’s sincere, though. And he fully intends to reward Gansey by turning around, hips moving in slow circles, fingers running along the waistband of the borrowed pants and his underwear. 

“Tease,” Gansey mutters under his breath as Ronan’s hands disappear beneath the fabric and reappear a couple of times. Ronan is genuinely trying to be one, but he’s only human, and Gansey is Gansey, after all, so he gives in relatively quickly, pulling down the rest of what he’s wearing. 

Immediately, Gansey grabs him by the hips and pulls him down on top of him, reaching for Ronan’s jaw so he can turn his head and claim his mouth. Gansey can never keep his hands off of Ronan. Ronan loves the touching, melts right into it, pressing his back against Gansey’s chest. 

“Spread your legs,” Gansey whispers, teeth worrying at Ronan’s earlobe.

Ronan couldn’t be happier to oblige, lifting his knees up and over the armrests of Gansey’s chair, making room for Gansey’s hands to run along the sensitive insides of his thighs. Every time without fail, it makes him crazy, so close to his hard dick, so close to the most intimate part of him, but not quite there, warm and soft and promising. So, _so good._

Ronan wouldn’t mind staying there. It’s the beginning of July and not cold even if it’s still early. Nobody can see them except a bunch of animals. Outside or inside, on a chair or in a bed, Ronan doesn’t care. Where he feels comfortable is not a place, it’s Gansey. 

He’s tempted. Tempted to take Gansey’s hand and put it on his cock. He likes being in Gansey’s lap with strong arms around him and a shoulder to fall back on while Gansey gets him off. He’s also tempted to turn around and drop to his knees, to pull down Gansey’s cock out of his sweatpants and suck it until Gansey does that thing where he loses control and his legs lock around Ronan’s body like a vice. Ronan wouldn’t mind a taste of him for breakfast, but he tends to lose himself when Gansey is around, and they don’t have any lube at hand. 

“Gansey,” he breathes out, “take me upstairs.” 

It’s never going to not kill him when Gansey just picks him up like he isn’t a whole grown man. It makes his knees weak, so it’s probably for the best that Gansey carries him all the way inside, up the stairs and into the bathroom like it’s nothing, not even interrupting their kisses once. By the time he lowers Ronan onto the counter, Ronan has turned himself into a mess by grinding against him as well as possible. 

Gansey takes a step back and looks him up and down, clearly satisfied with the result. He opens the cupboard behind Ronan and pulls out a bottle of lube, weighing it in his hand. He kisses Ronan’s shoulder, then his neck, and finally his cheek. 

  
  


“Do you actually want to get into the shower or do you want me to take care of you first?”

Ronan isn’t exactly the patient type. He takes the lube from Gansey’s hand and pulls his legs up and apart. “Get undressed,” he orders, slicking up his own fingers as he watches Gansey throwing away top and pants. From the looks of it, he isn’t any less turned on than Ronan. 

“Touch yourself,” Ronan says, because he’s recently discovered just how much he enjoys that. Gansey’s hands are maybe Ronan’s favorite part of his body. It’s not like he doesn’t love having them on him, it’s just that he can’t focus on watching them while they’re busy taking him apart. The solution is simple. He lets Gansey stand before him on the bathroom rug while Ronan is half sitting, half lying on top of the counter by the sink with his hand between his open legs. 

Gansey puts one hand on Ronan’s leg and wraps the other one around his own cock, just like Ronan told him to. At the very first touch, a breathy moan escapes his lips. He wants to, but doesn’t move until Ronan has lubed himself up and is starting to press one finger inside himself. 

They’ve done it before, watching each other, letting their gazes roam each other’s body, always coming back to their faces for eye-contact. Ronan sets the pace and Gansey follows, stroking upwards with every push of Ronan’s finger inside, stroking downwards as Ronan pulls out again. 

Ronan loves the way Gansey’s hand looks, loves that the skin in his palm is white and the skin on the back is golden. He loves the curve his fingers make, how smoothly they bend and uncurl, how softly and purposefully they touch. He loves the muscles working in his wrist and the veins that are only sometimes visible, just a hint of blue beneath his skin. 

He loves that they do what he tells them to without words. Ronan adds another finger and pushes deep inside, making Gansey’s jaw go slack. He moves faster then, fucking himself, having Gansey do the same thing, fist pumping his cock until he looks like Ronan needs to stop if he wants Gansey finishing inside him. 

“Come here,” he says, pulling his hand away and making room for Gansey between his legs, wrapping them around his middle as Gansey steps right in front of him, leaning over Ronan’s upper body and kissing him. Ronan kisses back, but he retreats for one sweet smile and the words “Fuck me.” 

A moment later, he’s got Gansey’s tongue in his mouth and Gansey’s cock pushing past his rim. The slight burn takes his breath away for a second, and being filled, being really, totally, properly _filled up with cock_ does something entirely else, but it all fades to the background the second Gansey starts rocking his hips. 

The beautiful thing about sex with a person who you’ve been having very regular sex with for months is, they know which buttons to push. It doesn’t always have to go slow, doesn’t always have to be exploration and testing each other out. It can be forceful and on point, every movement intentional, every kiss timed perfectly. At this point, Gansey just _knows_ him. He knows when to pull Ronan further down by the hips, and he knows when to speed up. He knows the right moment to grab Ronan’s hands and pin them down behind his back. He knows the sounds, the little jerks and twitches, telling him when to put his hand around Ronan’s throat, telling him to close his fingers around it, to press down softly, carefully, just enough to take all of Ronan’s focus away from anything else. 

It’s the best way to make sure Ronan absolutely loses it as he comes. Without his dick being touched, without much of a sound, he squirts his release all over himself, stomach, chest, a little bit of his landing on Gansey’s chin. Gansey comes shortly after, as per usual, pushed over the edge by Ronan clenching down on him.

Where Gansey gets the strength to pull Ronan up and into his arms after it, Ronan has no idea. All he knows is that Gansey kisses his shoulder as he eases out of him, carrying Ronan with him as he goes and turns on the water in the shower and gets two towels from another cupboard. 

*

“Did you know that I thought you were a total weirdo, back when I was sitting in my old apartment and listening to you through the door?” Ronan asks, watching with bemusement as Gansey applies shaving cream to his face. 

“I don’t believe in weirdness,” Gansey replies. 

“Me neither,” Ronan shrugs, “not anymore. I thought you were weird for being so smart and working in construction. I thought you were weird for wearing those polos all the time. Actually, I’m not totally sure I’ve changed my mind about that one. But all the other stuff? The Pig, the mint plant, Monmouth. Don’t get me started on that Welsh dude.” 

“King, Ronan,” Gansey corrects him, pointing at Ronan with his razor through the mirror. “Owen Glendower was not a _‘dude’.”_

“Whatever,” Ronan waves him off, “point is, you weren’t actually a weirdo. You just weren’t as afraid to _want_ things as I was. As most people are.” 

“And you’re just now realizing that you’re not a weirdo either?” Gansey asks. “Because I could have told you that. I would have.” 

Ronan smiles and shakes his head. “Actually,” he says, “I think I’ve known for a while now. Doesn’t matter. Speaking of recent developments and unexpected revelations, any news about Welsh Dude?” 

“Ronan,” Gansey growls, “some respect, please.” 

“I take it back,” Ronan giggles - _giggles,_ because he’s _that_ in love - “you are a _little_ bit of a weirdo.” 

**Author's Note:**

> If you've made it this far, thank you for reading! If you liked the story and/or art, or if you want to make our day a little brighter, please consider a [reblog.](https://flyde.tumblr.com/post/622446865726767104/everybody-loooooook-working-on-this-has)
> 
> Thank you so much! 😊✨


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